


Resurrection

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years. Can a man simply come back from the dead? Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Protection Detail/Bargains with Mycroft Apt to Frustrate

**Chapter One: Protection Detail/Bargains with Mycroft Apt to Frustrate**

 

The man cloaked in shadow (and the added precaution of a good coat) watched the shorter man in the shorter coat cross the street, naked with daylight.

Exposed. Troublesome. Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself. Getting poetic, are we? he mused silently. Getting as bad as John. Still. Good image. He cast a glance at the edges of his shadow, still contoured with the edge of the building behind him. Still hidden. Good. 

John, as usual, suspected nothing. He never stopped, looked over his shoulder. Never seemed to feel for instant that he was being watched, followed. Guarded. It was almost disappointing. Surely he’d learned to be more observant during that year and a half in 221B Baker. Perhaps he’d simply put the possibility out of mind altogether. Safer that way. John liked to believe that he preferred safety; his recurrent limp said otherwise. 

Sherlock waited, allowing for a half-block’s lead time, then eased around the corner, crossed to the opposite side and resumed trailing John. Headed to Harry’s, that explained the extra measure of reluctance in his gait, leaning a little harder than usual on the cane. Ridiculous thing. Far too short. Want to destroy it. No, the other part of his mind said. He thinks he needs it. Let him have it for now. 

That part wasn’t really optional; he couldn’t cross over, wrench the ridiculous thing out of John’s hand and chuck it in a skip. Mycroft had been quite specific about the terms of his disappearance; it would only work if John in particular believed it to be true. His was the only life it really changed; Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and the rest would carry on as usual. He liked to think that Mrs Hudson would be a little sad. He wondered if she’d taken down the cow skull. Mycroft would have rescued the lab equipment, at least. Or would he? He’d better have done. Yes. Likely. Probably had the MI6 all over it. Probably never see it again. Sigh. Meanwhile: John. John moved out, Mrs Hudson presumably let the flat. Sherlock hadn’t been back himself; somehow it felt wrong to be there. Pointless. Tedious. (Sentiment? Perish the thought.) John’s new flat (and somehow he still resented that such a thing existed) was all right, better than the dismal bed-sit he’d lived in before Baker Street, but then, anything would have been. Regardless, he didn’t spend much time there. He slept on the short, inadequate sofa at the surgery occasionally, at the flat occasionally, and the rest of the time, it was Mary’s. 

Mary’s: South Kensington, rather posh. Completely unlike the John Watson he knew, possibly quite like the John Watson which John Watson believed he wished to become. Sherlock hated it unreservedly, the white-pillared Georgian monstrosity with ivy crawling up the pillars like an infection, butler to answer the door. Mary had money, obviously. Was John marrying that? No. Reassess. John was marrying the notion of safety and comfort and domesticity and other (ridiculous) notions of marital bliss. (Incomprehensible.) Of course he was prone to spend nights there; he was marrying the woman in four weeks, after all. It was everything he thought he wanted. (Possibility that it was indeed what John wanted? Consider. No.)

(Doubt.)

(Fear. Delete immediately.)

Sherlock blinked and ducked behind his collar in passing a woman walking her terrier, hastened to resume his pace; somehow he’d slowed down for a moment. No need to hurry: John was not about to win any county races at this speed, but he shouldn’t have let his concentration slip like that. 

Of course, he was hardly about to let Mycroft dictate everything; they’d agreed on a certain period of time. That was Mycroft’s doing, otherwise Sherlock would hardly have agreed to three years. Three years of safehouses and dodging Mycroft’s heavy-handed protection detail (and Mycroft himself), but it was nearly over. Finally. They complained sometimes (frequently), the morons Mycroft sent to tail him, as if between the CCTV and squadrons of idiots dogging his every footstep would actually enable them to keep tabs on him at all times. It wasn’t hard to evade them, just required a little creativity sometimes. Odd, how the sorts of people who went into the British Secret Service and other similar types of work nearly always seemed to be so appallingly lacking in creative ability. So two-dimensional in their thinking. As if the only exits to a safehouse were through its doors and windows. Morons. It grew tedious occasionally, having to always think of new ways out (occasionally dangerous, mental note about roofs pitched at more than forty-five degrees while wearing shoes designed for the creation of an image rather than maintaining footing on slate roof tiles), but if he was going to maintain his own protection detail, it was simply necessary. An inconvenience easily overlooked, irrelevant the instant it had finished. 

Luckily John was reasonably predictable. Reasonably? Utterly. Even this marriage. When Mycroft said three years, his absolute, immutable condition before consenting to anything, Sherlock had known. Known it the moment he consented. One word – the most reluctantly given _yes_ to escape his lips in Mycroft’s presence to date. One _yes_ and with a lift of Mycroft’s hand, the full weight of the British government had been unleashed in a floodgate of plans, precautions, networks of safety (ignore all of it) and Sherlock was free to go his merry way and die. 

Dying hadn’t been so bad. Having to do it in front of John – more painful than anticipated. _Pain_. He hadn’t thought before, hadn’t considered that sentiment would get the better of him then, in what should been nothing more than a very convincing performance. But John always could, couldn’t he. Get past the walls. What legions of verbal contortions from past associations could never elicit from him, John could, in two words. _You could_. Staunch refusal to believe the lie that had been so hard to tell, the arguments to back it slicing open his trachea as he forced them out. Idiot, John. Just take it. But he wouldn’t. _You could_. Mycroft said later that John had been “most touching”, irritatingly. Trust him to ruin it, or do his best. He’d added, snidely (everything Mycroft said was snide), “I see why you fancy him so, Sherlock. And he’s clearly besotted. Pity.” Pity? When they both knew that with Sherlock’s _yes_ , the real price was this: losing John. Losing John to _Mary_. He’d have had more respect if John had gone over to Moriarty. 

But it was utterly predictable. John was, much as Sherlock was loath to admit it, still wounded. Needy. Needier than either of him wanted him to be. He had relied on Sherlock too much, perhaps. Surely his therapist had told him that, after. After the fall. He’d gone back. Sherlock had wanted to hate that, too, but with the framework he’d come to depend on taken so suddenly away, he was in need of something. A stand-in. Someone to talk to, not that a therapist was going to work, not when John wouldn’t have put himself through the ridiculous motions of talking about his feelings with a near-stranger. He knew as much as Sherlock that therapy was nonsense (Sherlock hated therapists on principle), he just needed a temporary stand-in until he found a permanent one, which he had. Mary. 

Sherlock stopped. He’d almost drawn even; John was already at Harry’s and ringing the bell. He stepped back into the shadows under a balcony and settled himself to wait until John re-emerged. 

***

He’d been tempted, on occasion, to allow himself to drift into John’s field of periphery. He’d tried it once or twice, but Mycroft was merciless. Each time he deliberately placed himself in John’s view or lingered just a little too long, one of Mycroft’s omnipresent, unmarked black cars would swoop alongside and nab him directly off the sidewalk, sometimes detaining him for hours. He’d learned not to do that. Too difficult to pick up the trail again, and meanwhile, he doubted Mycroft was being as vigilant about John’s safety.

He had left, of course. Mycroft hadn’t needed to gang-press him into helping track down other players in the huge network of players still in action. Moriarty was gone, yet the dance continued. He’d been on the continent, in grimy back alleys of Prague and Sophia and Moscow and Warsaw. He’d threatened Mycroft, told him, _You have to watch him, make sure he’s not followed, do you understand?_ It was pointless. _By someone other than you, you mean?_ Mycroft, oily as ever. Sherlock could only ever glare. At least he couldn’t call Mycroft’s people incompetent, per se, but he doubted that Mycroft cared sufficiently to see that much effort was applied. He’d always found John a relatively useful asset insofar as he felt John a good influence on Sherlock, or someone else he could use as leverage against Sherlock. No love lost between them since the beginning, and Sherlock never knew whom of the three of them was most to credit for that: Sherlock for having somehow gained John’s loyalty from the beginning, John for his staunch refusal to play Mycroft’s little spy games, or Mycroft himself for being so intensely repellent. The third. Definitely the third. 

Meanwhile, if he didn’t want to be snatched off the streets by government cars, he would just have to content himself with watching John from the shadows. The time for revelation, however, was drawing near. 

***

It was as though Mycroft knew, could sense his thoughts from across the city. Damn the man. Sherlock was sitting in a café at the corner of Mary’s street when Mycroft dropped into the seat opposite without so much as a by-your-leave. Smug bastard.

“What.” He didn’t bother lowering the paper. 

“Please.” Mycroft dripped sarcasm. “You know how easy it is for me to find you.”

The paper didn’t move an inch. “What do you want.”

He could always see through it, though, and Mycroft never wanted nothing. There was no such thing as smalltalk where Mycroft Holmes was concerned. “Put the paper down. I’m sure whatever foolish disguise you’ve affected today is still in place.” As if he hadn’t seen it on hundreds of cameras already. 

Sherlock twitched the paper aside. “I’m reading,” he said, with some annoyance. 

“Nothing new.”

“Or important.”

“My point exactly.”

Sherlock sighed, folded the paper, and waited.

Mycroft studied his face. “Can you actually grow a beard that thick?” he asked mildly. 

“Never tried. What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Don’t say my name in public. I afford you the same courtesy.”

“You afford me the same protection,” Sherlock returned, sarcasm heavy on the final word. Try as he might to escape Mycroft’s little games, it was always futile and always terribly, terribly frustrating. The fact that he couldn’t hide that was the worst of all. That Mycroft knew all of the above was worse still. “What. Do. You. Want.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward over the small marble-topped table. Finally. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. It’s not time yet.”

Breath escaped heavily through his nose. “And when,” Sherlock bit, “do you think it _might_ be time?”

“When I deem it safe. I will let you know.”

“What makes you think it will ever be, as you put it, ‘safe’? I refuse to live this way forever. It isn’t – ” Sherlock stopped. 

“Fair?” Mycroft finished, lifting those supercilious eyebrows. “To whom, exactly? You?”

Sherlock heard the implication, felt the anger rising. Helpless to restrain it. He swallowed. “Yes,” he ground out. “To me. I will not be coddled and safehoused and followed for the rest of my natural life, doing your bidding. That was _not_ the agreement.”

Mycroft smiled placidly. “But you agreed, and now you’ll just have to let it play out naturally, in its own time. There is a piece of the puzzle left yet. Let’s not get hasty.”

Sherlock hardly heard him. John and Mary had left the flat and were walking toward the café, not slowing, not planning to come inside the café. Going for dinner somewhere. Getting a taxi at the corner, then. (Predictable.) He wanted to leave, but knew that if he said it (didn’t need saying, Mycroft would have already anticipated this), Mycroft would only stall him deliberately. 

“He still hasn’t chosen a best man, you know,” Mycroft said, still in that half-amused, half-bored tone he had. “The wedding’s only four weeks off now. Is that why you’re getting impatient? You want to make your grand return to the land of the living at John Watson’s wedding? Interesting. Terribly sentimental, really. I can’t say I didn’t anticipate this. I have suspected all along.”

Sherlock tuned him out, or made a valiant effort to do so. John and Mary rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Sherlock wondered if he kept the pistol on him even for dinner. He should do. One never knew. But Mary, Mary didn’t like the gun. It was always Mary. (“You’re a doctor,” in protesting tones. “You’re supposed to save people, not shoot them!” “A military doctor,” John corrected, but rubbed at his eyes, fatigue: concession.) Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “Hardly. Not really my area.”

“I’m sure you can read him your toast later,” Mycroft went on, more amused than ever. “‘To the only man I have ever known foolish enough to involve himself in my life – ’”

Sherlock stood abruptly, his chair skittering back, felt the heat boiling beneath his skin. Without a word, he picked up the paper and walked out of the café, Mycroft chuckling to himself behind him. (Infuriating.)

He went to the corner, but John and Mary were already gone. Very well: if his restaurant guesses proved to be inaccurate, he would simply wait outside the flat. 

***

Continuation of three-year argument held with self: how and what to tell John. 

When didn’t really matter. When it felt right. (Dubious. Unsure. Hate being unsure.) Problem: faking own death and subsequently not coming out of hiding going on three years now bound to cause certain reactions. John Watson: prone to choose emotional responses over logical ones, willing to allow sentiment to affect decisions. Still seeing his therapist, despite having successfully located a placeholder (Mary) in his life. He had grieved. He would respond with anger at first. For whatever gaps Mycroft, John, and – well – everyone else thought of his knowledge of human relationships and their function (lack of knowledge, rather), he knew John Watson. Knew from repeated reactions when something he’d done or said was a _bit not good_ , or when he’d become a little too engrossed in the work to pay sufficient attention to the sentimental bits that everyone else treasured so. Those sidelong looks of John’s, the dry, semi-exasperated little reminders (“ _try_ to remember that there’s a woman’s life/people taken hostage/kidnapped children here”), to keep him socially acceptable. If he was thinking about it, of course he could gauge John’s reactions. He just didn’t usually think about it. 

This, however, was more than a _bit not good_. He knew that. And he knew that John was not going to be happy with him. He’d thought about it. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t care. Happiness be damned. He’d stopped trying to please people a long time ago. They all knew his opinions on sentiment. But John. John was different. And John would be angry. 

He’d failed before. He knew that. Years of experience of people’s typical reactions to him had built in him certain types of responses, certain automatic defences. Most people hated his deductions, even Lestrade and the rest, even when they needed them, relied on them to solve cases, keep their jobs. No one liked it outside a crime scene. People always said _piss off_. Only John had been different. _Amazing. Fantastic. Brilliant._ Sherlock could still remember the startled inner reaction he’d had that first time, in the taxi. John, frankly astonished, which wasn’t unusual, but a positive reaction. Praise. He didn’t consciously angle to get John to say it after that – the temptation to do so was strong, like a cat leaning into a hand – but John would say it anyway. It never failed to cause that same reaction: startled, pleased, warm. It was unusual. John was unusual. Centered enough within himself, despite his surface self doubts, to express things like that without suffering embarrassment. If he thought Sherlock _brilliant_ , he just said it. No beating around the bush. No backhanded compliments. No taking it away a moment later with something twice as stinging as the compliment had been pleasing (Mycroft). 

And he’d failed repeatedly. Dartmoor stood out in his memory. Spectacular failure, that. He’d been drugged, out of his mind with fear and doubt, twitching, reactive, unnerved and irritated. Barely aware of John trying to calm him with rationalisations and good sense, but nonetheless brushing his experience aside, invalidating it. Vaguely reminiscent of teachers and professors years ago. People never believed him. Usually John did, and that time he hadn’t, and Sherlock had shouted at him, told him that he didn’t have friends. John’s face hadn’t changed much, but there had been a certain set to his mouth, a little harder than before, a flicker of something in his eyes, and then his tone. Too resolutely steady, biting out his little retort. _I wonder why._ Confirming what everyone else had always said. Sherlock had gone too far. And John had left. (Left him alone. Forget that. It was well deserved.)

He’d been rather too aware the next day that John had only just forgiven him, too. He hadn’t thought about it much at the time; there was a case and he needed John cooperative enough for the lab experiment, but after he’d remembered, considered it quietly for a long time. John was indeed different: a friend. A real one. Apparently friends required more caution, less directness. John was a military man, surely he could appreciate a straight truth. That wasn’t it. He required less bluntness to the truth. Perhaps it wasn’t always necessary to say exactly what he thought. _I needed to test it on an average mind._ Yes. That could be too sharp. Good to bear in mind. 

_Alone protects me_ , he’d said. He hadn’t said _I need you to leave me for your own safety. So that I can protect you._ John never would have gone. The grief needed to be real, and John was too honest, too open to be able to pretend real grief. But perhaps he should have done some part of it differently. He didn’t know, and Sherlock hated not knowing.

He’d tried out different ways the conversation could go in his head. Most versions still resulted in John punching him or refusing to speak to him again. In one horrifying version, John cried. No. Steer it differently. John had cried enough, before; John, who always resisted falling apart, kept the nightmares at bay, stood his ground. John had cried when he died. It had been painful to watch. More painful than to die himself, to witness John’s reaction to his death. Pain: part of the deep well of things he’d deleted. (Tried to delete. Some things refuse to be deleted altogether, only pushed away and ignored.)

He hadn’t found the right hypothetical conversation. Predictable as John Watson was, Sherlock could not predict him in this. (Natural enough: new situation. Quite new. He’d never come back from the dead before.) It was troubling. But it was time to found out. Mycroft be damned. 

***

To his surprise, there was a car waiting two blocks from the safehouse, on the way to Mary’s flat. Mycroft seemed to have learned that if they could not detect Sherlock’s escape from the safehouses, they could at least predict his directions. He would need to add more variety to his routes. Or perhaps not. 

“We captured Tom Blakewell last night,” Mycroft said without preamble. 

Sherlock half-turned on the seat. “Who?” He felt the crease at the bridge of his nose contract. 

“Part of Moran’s crew. Expert in explosions and extortion.”

“Where?”

“Libya.”

Libya. He hadn’t even known the operation extended into northern Africa, though it was hardly surprising; den of terrorists there. Shaky, corrupt governments. Of course. Obvious. “Moran?”

“Still gone to ground. We haven’t heard a thing in over two years now. He may,” Mycroft allowed grudgingly, “be dead. We may never know.”

“What are you saying?” Sherlock felt himself holding his breath, muscles tensed. 

“You may tell him,” Mycroft said, as magnanimously as he possibly could. “You may tell them all. Carefully.”

Sherlock turned his face toward the window to conceal any emotional reaction. Resurrection. He was finally being granted resurrection. “How soon?”

“Tonight, if you wish.” Mycroft was studying him carefully; he could feel it. 

“Conditions?”

“No conditions. I assume you’ll want to show yourself to Watson before he hears about it from someone else.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“I have already let her know,” Mycroft said smugly.

Sherlock’s head turned without him intending it. “What?”

“I felt it for the best,” Mycroft said, irritatingly superior. “At her age, the shock of seeing you without warning might have been too much. She said you may take up residence in 221B again if you wish. After all, I have been paying the rent to keep it vacant for you.”

This was new information. Welcome information. “Thank you,” Sherlock said, turning back to the window. 

Perhaps Mycroft was surprised. “I know it has been a long time,” he said, more gently than usual. “But be careful. Don’t become sentimental now. Moran may return at any moment.”

“If he does, I’ll be ready.” He raised his voice for the driver. “Baker Street, please!”

***

He sat in the sitting room, willing himself not to fidget, not to play something to pass the time, to just wait. It was torture. He went over his carefully planned words, rehearsing. The violin was there on the desk, had been there all along, as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had never died. Everything was just as it had been, only cleaner. Mrs Hudson had straightened out all of the papers, cleaned the kitchen, dusted regularly. He’d seen her only briefly; she’d cried and tried to pretend she wasn’t (mysterious; it was altogether obvious, so why attempt to disguise it?), beat at his shoulders and told him he was impossible, then hugged him, released him and told him to go on and take his things upstairs all before he’d been able to react. 

The violin was calling to his fingers (three years without playing, he’d be in terrible shape) but it had to wait. Everything had to wait. Presumably Mycroft had dispatched a car to get John. He wasn’t supposed to say why. Sherlock had left it up to him to invent a suitable reason to get John to come to Baker Street on a Tuesday evening in May, just out of the blue. Not his problem. 

He waited. Finally, he heard it: the sound of the smoothly running engines of one of Mycroft’s fleet of cars. Heard the bell, heard Mrs Hudson’s thrilled voice, quavery with tears. And John’s voice. There it was again, that same, startled burst of warmth. He couldn’t hear their words, just the tones (anxiety in Mrs Hudson’s, confusion in John’s), but it didn’t matter any more. He felt his heart racing. John was here. _Here_. At Baker Street. At last. There were steps on the stairs (automatic mental count to seventeen), steps with a pronounced (psychosomatic) limp. John. Sherlock rose, straightened his coat. Breathed. His heart was in his throat. 

The door opened, and John was there.

“Hello, John.”


	2. John/The Only Illumination in the Room

**Chapter Two: John/The Only Illumination in the Room**

 

John: white, shocked, mouth open. Angry? (Impossible to tell so far.) Sherlock became aware that his fingers were trembling slightly, aware that he could hear his own pulse in his temples like a drum, in his wrists, his chest. 

John’s breath rushed out. “Oh, my _God_. Sherlock.” He sounded stunned. Looked stunned. 

Sherlock tried to smile, felt his lips trembling, too. He hadn’t felt this nervous since… times he didn’t think about any more. He didn’t know what to say. The rehearsed words seemed wrong, somehow. Unfamiliar ground, this. (Hated feeling so unsure.) He shrugged a little, still smiling feebly. “Hello,” he said again. 

John took a step into the room, looked somewhere off to the side for a second, mouth still open, then back at Sherlock. “You’re not – you’re not dead,” he said, mystified. Stupefied. 

“No,” Sherlock said. “Not dead.” He hesitated, waiting. 

John closed his mouth. “You – I – ” He stopped, swallowed, restarted. “But – you – I saw you – where – I can’t – ” Suddenly his bad leg collapsed and he fell hard against the door frame, cane clattering to the worn carpet. 

Alarmed, Sherlock took two steps toward him – was John going to faint? – but John thrust out an arm, holding him back. He stopped, not sure what to say. “John…”

John was on one knee, facing the carpet, breathing heavily. The door to the hallway was still open behind him, John’s words echoing into it. Sherlock wanted to close the door, at least, have this awkward reunion in private. He studied John acutely. Was he crying? (Please, no.) John looked up then, as though he’d heard the thought. His eyes were dry but his face – Sherlock grew more worried. “Sherlock,” he said too obviously trying to keep his voice under control, “Where have you _been_?” His voice broke, went into a whisper on _been_ and he stopped again. “I – ”

Perhaps the rehearsed words would work after all? He didn’t know which others to use. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, the words swift and urgent. “I am, I truly am. It had to be this way. I couldn’t let you know, before or… after. I know what it must have been like for you – ”

John’s face was suddenly full of rage. “No, you CAN’T, Sherlock, you can’t possibly know!” He struggled to his feet and closed the apartment door at last. “How could you know! You’ve never had your best friend die, someone who was your entire universe, suddenly taken away! You’ve never gone through that! I – how, _how_ could you not have been able to tell me? How you could just go and die and expect me to believe all that cock and bull about you being a fraud? How on earth would it have been impossible to tell me? I would have understood, I would have gone along with it! You _know_ that! All that crap about _alone protects me_ , did you really not trust me enough to let me in on this? And now, three years later, you finally tell me, _finally_ , that you’re still alive? I don’t _believe_ you!”

Sherlock stood very still, absorbing it, evaluating. This was all expected. Still: uncomfortable. (Painful: yes.) “I am sorry,” he said, trying not to sound stiff, but it came out overly formal nonetheless. “I am, John. Mycroft wouldn’t let me say anything at all. Before or after.”

“Mycroft.” The two syllables came out with as much scorn as John Watson’s voice ever held. Disgust. “I should have known. I should have bloody well known.” He shook his head. “Played by Mycroft Sodding Holmes again. Who else was in on this? Was I the only person who didn’t know, then?”

“No,” he said. “Molly. Molly helped. And a number of Mycroft’s people. No one else.”

His face was accusatory. “And why couldn’t I know?” He was angry. Very angry.

Sherlock hesitated. Suspicion told him that letting John know how important his grief was in the process of the validation of his death might be taken as insensitive at the moment. Probably wouldn’t diffuse the anger any. “He thought it best,” he said instead, trailing off. “John… I would have communicated somehow. I tried to let you see me a few times, but every time – ”

“Let me guess,” John interrupted. “Every time you tried, a big black car came along and nicked you off the streets.”

“Right in one.” Sherlock tried a tentative smile, let a moment go by as he tried to choose the right next words. “I’ve… missed you.” It was a vast understatement, but he was being cautious. 

And just like that, John’s face crumpled. “Jesus, Sherlock.” He was crying. “Three bloody _years_. I thought you were _dead_. I begged you not to be. I asked you if you could just do that for me.”

Sherlock hesitated again. “I _did_ do that for you,” he said quietly. 

John’s face contorted, breath heaving, as though he were fighting to find words. His cheeks were wet. “But – I – you – ”

Sherlock went to him and this time John didn’t fend him off. (Uncertain.) He reached for John’s shoulders, slowly enough that John could have pushed him away, told him to _piss off_ and take his fake death with him, but he didn’t. He allowed Sherlock’s arms to settle carefully around his shoulders, and after a moment, wordlessly clutched at the coat first, then Sherlock himself. Wept into the wool of the shoulder as Sherlock awkwardly stroked his back (always so awkward: hateful). Should he say something? Not really his area, this. Trapped in uncertainty. Perhaps another apology. John liked apologies, or at least seemed mollified by them sometimes. “I’m sorry,” he said, testing. 

Apparently that was the right thing. John clutched him harder. “God, Sherlock,” he said into the wool. “I can’t believe it. Can’t believe you’re here, that this is real.”

Slightly alarming. “It’s real,” Sherlock said, not sure what else to say. “I’m here. You’re here. Mycroft isn’t, to my knowledge, though he’s probably outside somewhere.”

John gave an almost-laugh, though it was still half-sob. “You did it for me,” he whispered. “Did your miracle.”

Sherlock smiled then, smoothed a hand over the back of John’s neck. “I did.”

John smiled, he could feel it through his shoulder, through the wool. “I want to know everything,” he said, pulling away at last. “From the day of your… your death, until now. Everything. How you did it. Why you did it. Everything.”

Sherlock’s hands were still on his shoulders. He tried a small smile. “That could take some time.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John said firmly. He turned and limped toward his old chair, plumped the Union Jack cushion once with equal firmness, sat down and looked pointedly at Sherlock’s chair. “Go on, then. Everything.”

Sherlock hid a smile at the bossiness. Went to his chair obediently. He’d wanted to tell John all of this and wasn’t sure he’d get the chance, if John would even speak to him again. He’d wanted to share how he’d beaten Moriarty at his own game, all of the cases-within-the-case in eastern Europe. It had been horribly boring without John’s steady presence by his side. “Everything?”

“Everything. Start with Moriarty.”

He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Yes. That’s where it all starts.”

“We have all night. I’m not going anywhere,” John repeated. 

There was a small space in which Sherlock could have said the name, could have said _Mary_. He didn’t. 

***

John listened, mostly, interrupted to ask questions here and there. Sherlock spoke patiently, elucidating details that John might not have thought of as _obvious_. Everything, in other words, but he didn’t say that. He would never have admitted it out loud, but he did love explaining his deductions sometimes, at least to John. John, who would sometimes say _amazing, fantastic, brilliant_. He didn’t say any of that just now, just listened. 

It was late. How late? Sherlock looked at the shadows stretching across the sitting room in the moonlight. Between two and three in the morning, then. The moonlight was the only illumination in the room. In it, John looked tired and old. There was more gray in his hair than there had been three years ago, but Sherlock had watched it grow in. He had started the narration from just after, strangely unwilling to talk about the death itself, the fall. (Why?) 

“So after Poland, you tracked the Russian back to Moscow?” John asked, clarifying. He rubbed his eyes. 

Sherlock studied him and contemplated; should he ask if it was too late? No. John would say if he wanted to sleep. He had never hesitated in the past. Though: things were different now. Make no assumptions. He decided to continue. “Yes. She bought a plane ticket to St. Petersburg and a train ticket to Moscow.”

“So, fifty-fifty chance, then?”

“No. Her mother lived in Moscow. Heart condition.”

“Ah. Right.” John yawned, checked his phone, but if he was surprised by how late it was, he didn’t say anything about it. Sherlock waited for him to say he’d heard enough, needed to leave, get back to Mary or whatever. “Go on.”

He suppressed the smile. “Well, from there, it was easy enough to track her down. She had a boyfriend.”

“Right. I see. And after that?”

“After that I was back in London for awhile.”

“Doing… what, exactly?” John looked at him. “Surely you weren’t here, at Baker Street. Tell me that much.”

“Of course not. I told you, Mrs Hudson didn’t know. I didn’t even know that our flat was empty all this time. I assumed she had let it. I didn’t know that Mycroft was paying the rent.”

John’s eyebrows went up at that. “Was he. I suppose he was all along, then?”

“You mean, before?” Sherlock didn’t clarify. John waited: that was it, then. “I suppose so,” he said, looking at John’s knees rather than his face. 

“I always knew you didn’t need help paying the rent,” John said, with a derisive snort. “I always wondered what you wanted a flatmate for.”

Sherlock smiled a little, didn’t say anything. 

John seemed more awake now. “You skipped over your death,” he said abruptly. “The fall. You started all this from right after that. I want to hear about that day. I think I’ve earned the right to know, after all this time.”

“I agree,” Sherlock said. “You’re sure?”

Wrong words; John glared. “Of course I’m sure – ” he started angrily. 

Sherlock lifted a hand to stop the onslaught. “All right. I just wanted to be sure. That you were ready.”

“I’ve been waiting three years for an explanation I thought I would never hear,” John said bluntly. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock said quietly. “All right.” He cleared his throat, and spoke. 

John didn’t interrupt. Several times, various expressions crossed his face, at times Sherlock thought he might ask the questions clearly going through his mind, and though he gave John chances to jump in, he didn’t take them. Sherlock went on. He talked about Moriarty, on the roof. He tried to explain that strange sensation of Richard Brook being the dream and James Moriarty being awake again after the nightmare of the lie, yet the entire memory of the rooftop bore an aura of hazy, hallucinatory unreality, too. The moment when he shot himself, the gunshot report translating into a visual sensation, blaring like lights behind his eyes as he realized immediately, _trapped, no alternative, I have to fall_ , and _John_. That part he didn’t say aloud. And when he got to the bit where John had arrived, rushing out of the taxi, he stopped. 

He could feel John’s eyes on him. “I understand why you lied to me,” John said, in a tone Sherlock couldn’t quite read. “What I don’t understand is why you thought I would believe it for even a second.”

Sherlock was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He looked up; their eyes met under his mop of hair. “Everyone else did. I thought it was worth a shot. So much depended on it.”

John started something, stopped, restarted. “I understand that,” he said again, “but it was _me_ , Sherlock. _Me_. When had I ever doubted you before?”

“You hadn’t,” Sherlock acknowledged. “But I didn’t see any other way to go about it. I thought that if you thought I killed myself over it, perhaps you would.”

“And you _wanted_ to leave me thinking that your entire life and career were nothing but an elaborate plot to fool everyone into believing you were inhumanly clever or something?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said, a little more sharply than he’d intended. “As I said, it was a last resort. I had hoped to find a way out of having to jump at all, and for a few moments, I thought I had.”

John looked at him for a long moment. “Until Moriarty put the gun in his mouth.”

“I was still shaking his hand when the trigger blew,” Sherlock said. He could hear the bitterness. “Just when I thought I had solved the problem of how to avoid having to die, or seeming to die. I didn’t want to have that conversation with you, John. I promise you that.” When John didn’t say anything (he looked troubled, confused, angry, still angry), he added, “It was… painful. Having to do that, in front of you, with you still resolutely believing in me. Telling me to stop it. Telling me that _I could_ , when I said that no one could be so clever.”

“You could,” John said, again. “You always could. I always believed in you. I never stopped.”

Sherlock suddenly experienced something he’d not felt since childhood, a tightening in his throat not dissimilar to being choked. He couldn’t breathe. His jaw clenched, he made himself swallow. He had no words for this sensation, this unwelcome onslaught of feeling.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said heavily. “Say something.”

He breathed deeply, shakily. Body was betraying him again. Emotion. “Thank you,” he said, and it was wrong, somehow. Too formal again. His voice sounded raspy, lower than usual. He had to add something. “For that. For believing.”

John gave something like a shrug. It looked frustrated. “What can I say. You’re Sherlock. It’s who you are. I know that. I’ve always known that.”

The air in the moonlight was too heavy. No way out but to go through it, though. “But you understand, then? Why it had to be this way?”

John sighed heavily. “I do and I don’t. I do in my mind, but not – Sherlock, seeing you fall… I felt like a part of me died that day, do you understand that?”

He did and he didn’t. How could he say that? He said nothing instead, watching John intently. 

“It was different than in Afghanistan,” John continued, staring at the turned-off television. “There you expected it. And no one was that – no, it’s not that they weren’t close. In the army everyone’s close. It becomes your family in a sense. But you were… you were different. Your life became my life. I was so lost, after… so lost without you.”

Sherlock listened. Hands still dangling uselessly between his knees, long fingers bumping against each other, doing nothing. In the moonlight they looked white as bone. (Don’t know what to do with them. Uncertain.) Perhaps he was just supposed to listen now. 

“I didn’t know what to do. I just kept doing basic things and nothing had any meaning any more.”

He stopped, and Sherlock felt perhaps he was supposed to speak. “You went back to work. You found another surgery.”

“Yes,” John said. He looked at Sherlock. “You followed me. Had me followed.”

“I followed you.”

“Not Mycroft’s people?”

“Only while I was away.”

“For three years?” John sounded disbelieving. 

No need to acknowledge that per se. He shrugged a little. “Given that I did what I did for your protection, leaving you unprotected after the fact would have been somewhat pointless.”

“You’ve been stalking me for three years,” John confirmed.

“Stalking?” He could hear that he sounded a little miffed. “Watching,” he corrected. 

John shook his head, but he was smiling. “There were times when I thought I could feel it. I thought it must have just been the CCTV. Mycroft.”

“He may have been watching, too,” Sherlock allowed. “His people watch everything.”

“That’s true enough.” John was still smiling. He looked over again. “I just can’t believe that you’re actually here.”

“I am,” Sherlock said. Was the crisis past? He smiled back. 

“It feels – being here – ” John gestured around the flat – “it feels like nothing’s changed, like it’s still just us, same old Baker Street, minus the mess. Just you and me.”

_It could be that way again,_ Sherlock didn’t say it. Could feel that John nonetheless heard the unspoken words, too. 

“I’m getting married,” John said, his voice very soft. “I’m sure you know. You must know.”

Sherlock moved his chin just enough to constitute a nod. He sat back in his chair, posture stiff. “Yes.”

John watched him for a moment. Sherlock had a sense that he was weighing words. “I still need a best man, you know.”

“So Mycroft said.” He still sounded stiff. 

John began to laugh. “You and Mycroft discussed my wedding?”

“He seemed quite happy to share certain pieces of information.”

John shook his head. “I realize it’s three weeks away, but would you possibly consider coming to my wedding and being best man? I know that weddings probably _aren’t your area_ , but would you make an exception this once?”

(Hesitation. Being best man while John married Mary. Hateful.)

(But: John’s face.) “Of course,” he said swiftly. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

Relief washed palpably over John’s face. “Thanks,” he said. “It means a lot to me.”

Sherlock just smiled, though it felt tight. “How could I say no?”

John smiled back, and for a moment, everything felt all right. “I suppose everything has changed,” he said, almost wistfully. “But it’s good to know that you’re _here_ , that you’re alive.” He looked over at the sofa. “Mind if I kip on the sofa? It’s late.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said again. “Let me find you a blanket or something.”

“Ta,” John said. He stood, stretching, his jumper lifting a little. Sherlock found himself watching it, thinking how familiar the gesture still was. Normally the television would have been on. John would switch it off and announce he was going to bed. Now the bedroom upstairs was empty and cold, like Sherlock’s own, and John was only staying over on the sofa. Not staying. But it was a start. He stood and went to busy himself about getting bedding. 

***

Weddings. He knew why he’d always kept his distance from them now. Insanity. Pointless insanity. When he said this once (a milder version, at least), John had laughed and added the word _expensive_ to the list. He seemed happy enough, though, buzzing around with all of the planning. Sherlock more or less tuned it out, John bursting into Baker Street, already talking before he’d got in the door, calling his name. (“Sherlock! Have you got cufflinks after all? Just found out the groomsmens’ shirts have all got French cuffs, you’ll need a pair!”) Or pulling his hair out over last-minute trivia (“The photographer’s gone and broken his ankle, the idiot, we’ll have to find someone else now and everyone’s taken, we picked a popular week-end to get married, apparently!” Of course, John, the second Saturday in June, what were you thinking?) But he didn’t mind, really. Being at home again was nice enough, but being home and having John about was still more pleasant. 

Even if it did mean enduring other, less pleasant things. He’d avoided it thus far, but it was only a matter of time. 

“Dinner tonight, you, me, and Mary?”

“Can’t, have to go see the Home Secretary. This time I owe him a favour.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Not sure. Will let you know.”

Then, later: “What about the week-end, then? Sherlock, the wedding is in two weeks – ”

“Sixteen days.”

“Whatever, and you still haven’t met my _bride_ yet.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and John cut him off. 

“Following her around does _not_ count, Sherlock, and you know it. Saturday. I’m putting it in my phone.”

“Fine. Do that.”

“Stop with your bored, I’m-too-cool-for-this thing. You’re meeting Mary, properly, and that’s it. Tell me you’re coming.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. John’s face was radiating excitement and anxiety both (excitement overlaying anxiety, meant to disguise it). “I’m coming. Where?”

Excitement won the internal struggle. “Really? I mean, great, wonderful,” John said, his entire face smiling in relief. “Antonia’s?”

Sherlock didn’t remind him that he almost never chose Greek if he was doing the choosing. It didn’t matter. “All right.”

John beamed. “Where’s your phone?”

“Jacket pocket.”

He came over, still exuding that happy energy into Sherlock’s stillness. “Which pocket? I’ll just – put it in there for you, make sure you don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget.” John ignored him, patting down both pockets from behind him. It was almost a hug. It was strangely close, this unexpected contact. “Left side.” John’s hand deftly slipped inside, not roughly like that one time, jostling him on purpose. Sherlock could have kept on typing without being hampered by this. Interesting: so John _was_ capable of subtlety when he chose. 

“I’ll just… there we go.” Still (obviously) feeling pleased about the whole business, John hurried back toward the door. “Well, I’m off – got to pick up a cake stand or some such thing. If I don’t see you tomorrow – well, I probably will, but – then Saturday, yes?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock didn’t look up. 

“Great!” John lingered for a moment, then went. Sherlock looked up, but it was too late; John’s (uneven) steps were already at the bottom of the stairs. 

***

Antonia’s: trendy, over-priced, bound to be crowded on a Saturday evening. Mary’s choice. (Obviously.) If it were John choosing, it would have been take-away Chinese, or Italian had he been feeling fancy.

He really had no interest in meeting Mary; he already knew everything there was to know about her. Nonetheless, he was playing by the rules, arriving precisely five minutes early (ahead of John and Mary). He would have brought of a bottle of wine had it been that sort of restaurant, but no: a restaurant chosen by Mary would only sell their own marked-up versions of the same wine he could have bought in a store. He’d done his best to forestall this meeting for as long as possible, but it had to come sometime. From here on in, it would cease to be _Sherlock_ and _John_ and _Mary_ and would become _Sherlock_ and _JohnandMary_. Forever linked, forever a blend of personhood into a singular unit of humanity, a pair which manifested only pair behaviour. The Mary part would insist on constantly trying to fix Sherlock up with someone, so that in order for the John part to be allowed further contact with him, it would be done as two Couple Units. Sherlock detested the notion. Why should he have to pay the price of bearing Mary’s presence just to see someone she – in his own opinion – had no claim over. So what if he was marrying her. 

He sighed. Out loud, evidently. 

“Sorry,” John was suddenly at his elbow, apologizing, clearly having overheard the sigh. “Couldn’t get a taxi.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said, smiling nicely. (Play by the rules. Keep John happy as far as possible.) “Hello.”

“Sherlock, I’d like you to meet Mary,” John said, his arm behind her shoulders, the portrait of husbandly care and shepherding. He turned to her, smiling, though Sherlock could sense a certain underlying anxiety again: why? “Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary was all smiles: insipid. Typical ensemble: cheap materials, pretentious cuts (bad seamwork, expensive labels: money but no taste), shoes that didn’t fit and therefore pinched the outer insteps (try scaling a sloped tile roof in those, please), too much hair product in her (falsely) curled, (falsely) blond hair. “Hello,” she cooed. “I know all about you. The great Sherlock Holmes! If even half of what John says about you is true, I’m pleased to meet you.”

Well. That was nice enough. He took her fingers. “John knows all of my darkest secrets,” he said, sliding at look at John. “I wouldn’t presume to correct him.”

“Rubbish,” John said. (Was he blushing? Why?) “No one knows your darkest secrets, Sherlock, don’t give me too much credit.”

“Still,” Mary said, with a laugh, “I ought to be jealous, with the amount he talks about you! And that was _before_ your miraculous return!” Her eyes widened comically on the word “miraculous” and Sherlock read the antipathy underlying the tone clearly. He knew that particular ploy all too well. Reassess: not nice. He’d encountered bullies like that before, the ones who sugar-coated everything they said, or cloaked it in what they deemed humour.

“Perhaps.” It was all he would give her. Indifference was the only defense with a person of her nature. “Well, shall we go in?”

“It’s busy,” John fretted. “I should have thought, Saturday night – we’ll never get a table.”

“I made a reservation.” He allowed a touch of smug pride into his voice. 

John looked frankly astounded. “You did!” He shook his head. “You will never cease to surprise me.” He ushered Mary through the door, but gave Sherlock a smile over his shoulder. There it was, that feeling of startled warmth again. He tried not to allow himself to feel pleased by it. 

(Dangerous ground, this.)


	3. Bow Tie/The Case of the Disappearing Ring

**Chapter Three: Bow Tie/The Case of the Disappearing Ring**

 

From behind him, John’s voice: “What do you think, Sherlock? Fit all right?”

Sherlock unbuttoned the jacket, adjusted the vest, turned to view it on the angle, rebuttoned the jacket. “Fine,” he said, more to his reflection than to John. 

John came around the corner, fiddling with his cuffs. “What’s that?”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock repeated, glancing behind himself in the mirror at John.

“What are you really thinking about? Your voice has gone all distant again.” He was smiling, though: not annoyed. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock turned around. “Do I make the grade?” He gave the jacket a tug and straightened to his full height, careful not to disturb the lines of the suit, which was, in fact, more than fine. He quite liked it. 

Going by John’s face, so did he. “Yeah, that’s just about right, isn’t it,” John said, staring at him. “The fit’s pretty much perfect.”

“Glad you approve.”

John shook his head. “Your legs just go on for days, don’t they.”

“It’s the cut, I expect.”

John smiled again, though he looked slightly dazed. “It’s not just the cut.” He turned his hands up a bit self-consciously. “This okay? Not too over the top?”

“You’re getting married,” Sherlock said. “That’s the best time to be over the top. Besides, everyone will be looking at the bride, anyway.” He never said her name if he could avoid it.

“Right,” John said ruefully. He squinted at himself in the mirror, touched his hair with an air of dissatisfaction. “But the tails are okay?”

Sherlock turned so that they were both facing the mirror wall. John looked like a character out of an eighteenth century Victorian romance. But, that said, not bad at all. Very nice, in fact. There was a certain military crispness to the coat; the lines lay well on John’s trim frame. “Yes,” he said. “You look nice.”

John smiled at him in the mirror. “Listen,” he started. “I know you don’t really like Mary. Don’t deny it,” he said, seeing Sherlock’s expression freeze. “You can do that thing where you keep your face perfectly still all you want but that says enough. It’s okay. It really is. I just wanted to say… it’s nice that you’re being so nice about it all. Almost… bizarre, actually, but I just wanted to say that I appreciate it.”

What was one to say to that? “Of course,” Sherlock said, not sure if it were the right thing. Was that acquiescing? Yes. Still: it wasn’t something that needed to be talked about. 

Apparently that was all it took. John clapped him on the back. “I can’t believe you turned up in time for my wedding,” he said. “Brilliant timing. I’d be going spare right now if you weren’t around to keep me sane.”

Sherlock wondered what he’d done to ensure that, but then again, he supposed he’d be more than a little unhappy if he were marrying Mary Morstan in three days’ time, too. Stamford opened the door to his cubicle then and came out puffing, sparing him the need to respond. 

“Sorry – I can’t get this bloody tie tied,” he said, craning his neck uncomfortably, and John and one of the tailors went over to set him to rights.

Sherlock ignored it all and examined his reflection again. John was right: his legs _did_ go on for days. He allowed himself a touch of smugness. He would outshine the bloody bride at this rate. 

***

The big day came. John was only slightly bleary-eyed, which, considering the amount he’d drunk the previous night, was surprising. Instead of going out, John had stated that he’d just prefer to have people to Baker Street (if Sherlock didn’t mind) and just have a quiet night in before all of the fuss and mayhem of the wedding day. Sherlock had consented (of course). It was a relatively small gathering: Stamford, Lestrade, Harry and her current girlfriend, and a doctor from one of the previous surgeries John had worked at. Tim or Tom or something along those lines. Cam. Roger. What did it matter. Boring man; easily forgettable. Harry and whatever-her-name-was had stayed for an hour and left (Harry drank fruit juice, the girlfriend drank beer and showed signs of keeping pace with Lestrade when Harry dragged her away). Lestrade and Stamford had begun singing bawdy songs, John occasionally humming along, until Lestrade’s current wife texted and he took himself reluctantly home. Stamford had passed out in Sherlock’s armchair, leaving he and John the last ones awake and still drinking, side by side on the sofa. John had passed out after awhile, too, his head falling onto Sherlock’s shoulder. He supposed he must have fallen asleep; he only remembered waking in the small hours to Stamford’s thunderous snores, John’s softer ones in his ear, breath warm on his neck. The sensation was startlingly… intimate. In his sleep, John had turned partially toward him, one hand warm on Sherlock’s thigh. He’d sat there for a moment, taking in the stereo snores and the sensation of warmth on his leg and along his left side, until Stamford gave a particularly loud grunt that shook John briefly awake.

He’d cleared his throat, smacked his dehydrated mouth (if the amount of scotch he’d drunk was anything to go by), stirred. “Sherlock?” He detached his cheek from Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh. Erm. Sorry.”

“Not a problem.” Sherlock eased himself up, stretching out the cricks in his back, missing the warmth immediately. He picked up a blanket from the floor and handed it to John. “Here. Sleep.”

John smiled sleepily, stretched out and did as he was told. Sherlock watched him for a moment, then went to bed himself, being sure to set several alarms. Obviously Stamford wasn’t going to be any use in that department. 

Now, he stood in front the mirror in the sacristy, fussing with his bow tie. Sherlock watched him. Most men who tried to adjust their own ties only succeeded in making them more crooked than before. John was no exception. Stamford sat placidly in a corner, sweating scotch but looking none the worse for the wear. As long as no one was sick. As best man, apparently it fell to him to ensure that a) a stag party occurred, b) that the groom arrived (on time) at the ceremony, and c) that the groomsmen were generally accounted for and presented. According to research, at any rate. Technically everyone necessary was there and present, at least for the men, and he couldn’t possibly have cared if anyone on the bride’s side had arrived, including (especially) the bride. 

“Have you got the ring?” John asked for the fourth time.

“Of course.”

“It’s too big.”

“I told you it was.”

“Mary said I should get it half a size bigger in case my fingers swell.”

“Why would your fingers swell?” 

“I don’t know. What time have we got?” John wanted to know, worry lines creasing his forehead. 

Sherlock swivelled the desk chair he’d commandeered toward the clock on the wall. “Five minutes till.”

“Oh, God. Sherlock, will you give me a hand with this?”

“Five minutes? I’ll just pop out to the men’s, then,” Stamford said, heaving himself to his feet. He appeared slightly wobbly but intact. 

“Don’t be long. The priest is coming to do whatever he needs to do and then it’s starting,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with Catholic rites, though he suspected John was little better off. Mary had discovered that her late father had been a practising Catholic and decided to adopt the faith late in life. Convenient, that. John had agreed to the Catholic wedding without objection, so here they were in St. Paul’s. 

“Will do.” Stamford disappeared. 

John was still tugging helplessly at the bow tie. “Come here.” Sherlock stood and John came meekly. There was something on his face that was more than pre-wedding jitters, more than being flustered about his tie. Uncertainty. No. A sense of irrevocability. Sherlock felt the echoes of it, more poignantly than he cared to admit. He stood very close to John and untied the bow tie with steady fingers. He’d tied it wrong, that was the problem. Sherlock retied it slowly, deftly, felt John’s breath on his chin. The last twist, fold, tighten. Adjust. “Perfect,” Sherlock said, his voice very low. 

“Sherlock…” He was so warm. He was made of warmth. (Was he trembling?)

Still holding the sides of the bow tie with both hands, Sherlock turned his face very slightly and put his mouth against John’s. There was a second or two where nothing happened, then John’s lips moved in response, both firm and soft against his. They stayed that way for a moment, then Sherlock moved away again, very slowly. He could feel John’s pulse beating through the bow tie. 

John’s eyes opened. (When had they closed? Impossible to tell; his eyes must have been closed, too.) “Sherlock,” he said again, softly. Was there a note of urgence there?

He gave the tie a last, gentle tug. “There we are,” he said. His voice was so low it sounded almost gravelly. “All set.”

“Sherlock…”

“All right, gentlemen, are we ready to proceed?” The priest, rubbing pale, flabby hands together, all smiles. Stamford bundled into the room behind him. “Is everyone here?”

“Ready,” Sherlock said. 

John gave him an incomprehensible look and stepped away, made a show of re-examining the tie in the mirror. “Right,” he said, too briskly. “All set.”

***

The two o’clock ceremony was finished at precisely two-forty, guests dispersed to amuse themselves while the wedding party was subjected to the prolonged torture of a photo shoot. The photographer both loved and hated him. (“All right, another shot with just the best man, then, can you step forward please, Mr Holmes, and this time let’s have a smile!” Murder still an option. John would be upset, but desperate times/desperate measures.)

Twenty minutes while the moron did group shots of Mary and her two nitwit bridesmaids, he and Stamford and John standing off to the side. John was being terribly jovial for the most part, the picture of a groom on his wedding day, only he wouldn’t make eye contact with Sherlock. Stamford was fully unaware that anything was happening (not happening) and opined that he needed a drink. The June sunlight was warm and he appeared to be feeling it. 

“All right, gents, let’s have the three of you, Dr. Watson in the centre, one groomsman on either side. Overlap his shoulders, that’s it. Now a little closer together, very good!”

Stamford shuffled in behind John’s left shoulder while Sherlock moved in from the right, feeling ridiculous. Never again. He could feel John’s heat through the tailored coat, felt him stiffen as the left side of Sherlock’s body leaned into him slightly, per instructions shouted from behind the lens. “Christ,” Stamford mumbled. “How much more of this?”

“God only knows,” John said. 

Sherlock said nothing. Weddings: not his area. 

They were sent off to the sidelines again. John was twisting at the ring. “It’s too big,” he said again, in answer to Sherlock’s look, eyes skittering away the instant they’d made contact. “I’m going to lose it at this rate.”

“I see your fingers haven’t swollen, despite the temperature,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I still have the box, if you’d like me to hold onto it.”

John hesitated. “I suppose I shouldn’t take it off before the photos are done, eh? Maybe I’ll take the box and slip it off later, when… at dinner or something.”

When Mary’s not looking. Sherlock withdrew the box from his jacket pocket and handed it to him silently. 

***

John seemed to relax at dinner. Mary was on his right, talking and giggling with the two bridesmaids at the small head table; Sherlock sat at his left and surveyed the crowd dispassionately, Stamford on his other side. He noticed that John spoke more often to him than to Mary. Still. Mary had won the day, after all. It wasn’t the old leather sofa at Baker Street where John would be falling asleep tonight. 

“Ready for the toast?” Stamford asked lightly, accepting a refill of white wine from a server. 

“Sure. Yes.”

Stamford smiled at him. “I must say, I was always a bit surprised how well it worked out with you two. One never knows.” With you, he thoughtfully refrained from adding. 

“It was your idea that I should have a flatmate,” Sherlock recalled aloud. “I still can’t remember why.”

Stamford shrugged and looked self-conscious: ah. It had something to do with Sherlock and his social skills, then. Was it because he’d asked about Molly or something? Why he wasn’t dating her? Stamford seemed interested in Molly and Molly seemed desperate enough; surely that could have worked. No: Molly was habitually drawn to men who were uninterested in her. Perhaps she could use a therapist, rather than John. Stamford must have pried a little too far into the whys and wherefores of Why Sherlock Holmes Does Not Date and been told for his pains that it was simply a lack of interest. In what? In that sort of thing. But what about friends? What about them. A flatmate, then? Yes. That was how it had gone. And then, conversation all but forgotten three hours later, Stamford was back with a friend in tow. That part he remembered clearly. 

He leaned over to John. “I still remember the first time I saw you, at Bart’s,” he said, keeping his voice low enough that no one else (Mary) would hear. 

Did John shiver? (Why? Oh. Perhaps.) He gave a light laugh. (Forced? Perhaps.) “So do I,” he said. “I’d wager neither of us thought then that you’d end up the best man at my wedding.” He was gently but firmly reminding Sherlock who he was, his role, what their relationship was (supposed to be). A strategic answer, more shrewd than Sherlock would have given him credit for. Did he know what Sherlock was doing? (Did Sherlock?) Still. 

“I knew you were the only person I’d ever contemplated living with,” Sherlock said, straightening up again. He could almost hear John trying to decide what to make of that, peripherally caught the look of fleeting surprise on his honest face. 

His food was half-eaten at best. The servers were leaving it, thinking he hadn’t finished. Another came by and filled his wineglass with a passable pinot noir. He drank half of it and set the glass down. Why were weddings so long? What was the _point_? Waste of time. (Re-evaluate. John was here; he therefore wanted to be here.) 

(Did he?) Slightly uncomfortable thought, that. 

“Sherlock – ” John. Alarmed. “I can’t find my ring. I’ve lost the ring.” 

“What?” Sherlock tuned back in, turned to look at him, at his bare left hand. “Did you take it off after all?” 

“Yes, I put it back in the box,” John said, urgent but low; he didn’t want Mary to know. “I can’t think what’s become of it!”

Interesting. “When did you take it off?”

“Right after we sat down,” John said, still hushed. “I thought it wouldn’t, you know, be quite the right thing to take it off so soon after, but I didn’t want to lose it – what can I have done with it?”

Sherlock frowned. “You took it off right after we were seated?”

“I think so, I can’t remember exactly… hang on…” John furrowed his brow, thinking. “Maybe I went to the loo first. Oh Christ, tell me you don’t think I washed it down the drain or something!”

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock said. “John. Stay calm. Do you remember specifically putting it in the box?”

John thought hard. “Yes,” he said finally. “We were sitting here at the table when I did that.”

“And you still have the box in your pocket?”

“Yes, but – ” John showed it to him beneath the table, masked by the swath of white linen. “It’s empty.”

Sherlock felt his pupils dilate, his pulse accelerate. A theft. Interesting. “We’ll find it,” he promised. “I’ll find it. Don’t worry about it tonight. It’s your wedding day.”

John was still frowning. “You think it’s been stolen, then?”

“A gold-and-diamond ring, disappeared from within a spring-mounted box stored inside a man’s jacket pocket? Obvious,” Sherlock pronounced. “No other explanation.”

John rubbed his forehead. “What am I going to tell her when she notices?” he agonized under his breath. 

“The truth,” Sherlock said, his eyes glinting. “That it was stolen. I wouldn’t suggest telling her tonight, if you can avoid it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I worked that part out, thanks.”

The emcee began to speak into the sound system then and the room fell silent. “I’ll have a look around before we go,” Sherlock said, sitting up straight again.

There was a lot of talking. Sherlock tried to pay attention, but it was tedious in the extreme. Finally, Stamford was nudging him. “I reckon you’re next, mate,” he said. 

Ah. Yes. The maid-of-honour was wrapping up her insipid memories of uni days with Mary, people were lifting glasses, applauding. Sherlock watched his own limbs go through the motions obediently. Then the emcee was back, more talking, skip ahead until he heard his name. 

He rose. He had written it out but then rewritten it so many times that he’d ended up memorising it. He cleared his throat, too aware of the many eyes focused on him. (Toasting. Stupid tradition. Why had he agreed to this, again?) He glanced down and to the right and caught John’s sober gaze. (Ah. John.)

“John Watson,” he said, “is the bravest man I know.” Silence. (Unbidden, Mycroft’s voice: _Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity_.) “You may know him as your doctor or your classmate or your neighbour, or you may know him as a soldier, the man with the steadiest hands in the battalion. I know John Watson as a reckless, thrill-seeking, irresponsible daredevil, prone to leaping from rooftop to rooftop, playing foot races with taxis and ambulances, hunting dangerous beasts on the moor late at night, getting entangled with gangs of criminals in abandoned Underground tunnels, and house-breaking, to say the least.” General reaction; tones of disapproval. “There are sometimes collections of insects on his mantle and body parts in his refrigerator and microwave,” Sherlock went on, speaking louder over the increased volume of the reactive sound. “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is because once upon a time, in spite of his better judgement, John Watson once consented to share my flat, and his reputation was irreparably damaged ever after.” Laughter. Tension dissipation. “I could add to this list that he is the best conversational partner to sort through an idea with, the finest man to have by your side in a spot of trouble, and the most loyal friend a man could have. To John Watson.” Sherlock lifted his glass, watched as everyone followed suit, then turned to John (still seated behind him) and raised it again. John was smiling, eyes and face full of warmth. No sign of exasperation that he’d made no mention of Mary or the marriage whatsoever. Good. So long as John was happy, he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of his toast. 

He sat down and drank some of his wine. Stamford was thumping him on the back and saying well done. John leaned over. “Thanks,” he said. It was all he said, but his smile was genuine and warm, the warmth transferring itself into that impossible-to-reach spot something around his solar plexus. 

***

Still later, the talking finally ended and the dancing began. He’d been walked through all of this. John and Mary would dance, of course, and then he and the rest of the party were required to join in at the second song. He’d be required to dance with Mrs Hudson once, Molly once, hopefully not Lestrade’s wife if he could avoid it, perhaps John’s mother. Harry wouldn’t want to dance. The girlfriend might. (Under no circumstances.) Then, possibly, he would be allowed to put Mrs Hudson in a taxi and take his leave. 

The question of the ring was a troubling one. By the time the wedding party had been seated at the head table, who else would have been close enough to John to have got at his inner jacket pocket? Practical evidence suggested that only he and Mary were close enough. All of the hugging and embracing had occurred earlier; the head table was isolated on a platform. No one had approached except the servers, and then from the far side of the table. Had John taken it out, put the ring back on, reconsidered, put it back in the box for safekeeping, fiddled with it nervously? 

The music began. John took Mary by the hand and led her to the dance floor. Sherlock heard her cautioning him not to step on the dress. She’d forbidden John to bring his cane to the wedding at all, and so far he was doing all right without it, just limping a little. The photography session had been too long for him. He studied them on the dance floor. There was clearly affection between them, that much was unmistakeable. He thought briefly of all the times he’d ordered John around, given him a direct command without so much as a _please_ and how John had always acquiesced, frequently without complaint. Was this part of missing the war, needing orders to follow? If so, then Mary was too weak. Oh, bossy enough, certainly, but without the proper credentials to back it. They were moving stiffly: John’s leg. But still with affection. 

Doubt. (Fear. Wasn’t it justified? Mycroft’s three-year delay had taken its toll, after all.)

The song began to close. The maid-of-honour was standing at his chair, saying words. He couldn’t remember her name. Not important. He stood, took her by the elbow (she was reaching for his hand but he wouldn’t have it) and led her to the floor, Stamford following with the other bridesmaid. He chose a spot about two meters from John and Mary ( _JohnandMary_ and held the woman at bay, his arms rigid. He would dance, but he wasn’t having her draping herself all over him. 

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it,” she purred, trying too obviously to break past the barrier of his arms.

“Holmes. Yes. And you are Allison. Andrea.” Whatever. 

“Kimberley.” The tone was noticeably cooler. Good. Fine. He was still watching John and Mary. (John.)

It was a slow song and John was holding Mary’s hand with his right and had his (ringless) left hand on the waist of her fluffy, ridiculous dress (fit deliberately too tightly). But she was small and her smallness made John look taller. They looked like an ideal bride and groom, if you went in for ideals. John looked over Mary’s shoulder at him. They’d drifter closer without Sherlock having actively planned to. John was still holding his gaze, his eyes dark and troubled. Unreadable: John, who was always so readable. Perhaps one of them should break the look, but Sherlock couldn’t. It was John. In Mary’s arms. He had the brief sensation of not being in his body, that the body wearing that nicely-cut suit with the gloss of satin on the lapels was an empty form dancing with whatever-her-name-was, while the rest of him was lost somewhere in John Watson’s eyes. Both pairs turned slowly, but John’s eyes never left his. He wondered what he was thinking.

The rest of it was a blur. Mrs Hudson was next, what a relief. She chatted lightly and inconsequentially about the wedding, the other guests, the food. He could make noncommittal noises and go along with it. She smiled up at him. “You look so nice, Sherlock dear. And your toast was really lovely, funny and kind all at once. You did really well. Bit of a hard day, isn’t it.”

That caught his attention. “Hard day?” 

“It’s always hard, isn’t it? When your friends go and get married? Hard knowing he won’t be coming back to Baker Street. Mind, he looks a bit as if he’s lost his best friend, too. Honestly, the two of you. I’ve missed having you about, though I must say, it’s been quieter…” she trailed off. They danced the rest of the song in silence. (Mercifully.)

Then it was Molly, smiling up at him shyly. She was less shy than she’d been before, before he’d died. And she wanted to talk, too. Wonderful. Absolutely fantastic. “Never thought of getting married yourself?” she asked, meaning it innocently enough. She had a boyfriend, hopefully someone not planning world domination or his personal demise this time. 

Any explanation he could haven given would have been far longer than she would ever want; besides, he wasn’t about to give one. “No.”

She let several measures of music go by before trying again. “You’re doing it again,” she said softly. “Looking sad.”

He looked down at her, perturbed. “I look sad?”

She nodded. “As soon as you think no one’s watching. I’ve been watching. You looked saddest while you were dancing, next to him.”

He didn’t ask who she meant by _him_. He didn’t know what to say. “Molly, I…”

“It’s all right, you know,” she said. “You don’t have to justify it to me. You never did need to. I’ve… don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve known you for years now. I’ve seen a lot of expressions on your face, but not that one. You don’t need to talk about it,” she added quickly, as though trying to reassure him. (Pointless. Unnecessary. Tedious. Don’t want to be having this conversation.) “But I know love when I see it. You’re in love with him, aren’t you. And he just went and got married.”

Suddenly the air in the room was too tight, lacking oxygen. (Ridiculous. The amount of oxygen wouldn’t have changed. Nonetheless.) He didn’t know he’d stepped away until he felt her small, firm hands on his wrists. (Was she afraid he was going to fall?) “Sorry – ” Air, he needed air – “Molly – excuse me, sorry – ”

She let him go, concerned face registering peripherally as he stumbled toward the nearest door. Pushed it open and staggered out into the parking lot in the warm June night. He stood outside, inhaling deeply, trying to let the fresh air restore his whirling thoughts. He absolutely refused to think about what Molly said, what Mrs Hudson was trying to imply. Delete. Delete. Delete. That way lay madness. The only thing that mattered right now was why on earth Mary Morstan had stolen her husband’s wedding ring.


	4. Skulls/A Four-Patch Problem

**Chapter Four: Skulls/A Four-Patch Problem**

 

“Sherlock, dear, _four_ skulls? Do you really need so many? Wouldn’t one or two do?” Mrs Hudson was plaintive. 

“I needed four,” Sherlock said from the sofa, staring at the ceiling. 

“I know you’re down right now, dear, but four…” She was fretting. When he made no response, she sighed. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

When she had gone back into the kitchen he pressed down upon the fourth patch and inhaled sharply. The nicotine rush made him light-headed even lying down. John would disapprove of four, but then, John wasn’t there to disapprove of it. And he would still prefer it to the 7% solution. His vision swam a little, blurring the wallpaper above him and the ceiling appeared to be descending toward his face. He blinked and it went back to its proper height. 

“When are they back, then?” Mrs Hudson had reappeared suddenly, startling him. 

He slid his shirt sleeve down and carefully extended his right hand for the tea, not wanting to misjudge the distance and knock it off the saucer. (John never bothered with saucers, knew he didn’t like them.)

“Sherlock?” She was hovering over him concernedly. 

Why? Oh. He hadn’t answered. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Where did they go? I can’t remember.”

She was trying to engage him, trying to force him to snap out of it. He hated that when she did that. “Brighton,” he said irritably. 

“How nice,” Mrs Hudson said. “Lovely spot. Bit touristy, but… So they’ll be back soon! That’ll be nice, won’t it.” She gazed down at him, stooped and petted his shoulder. “There, now. And what about your cases, Sherlock? Anything on? Has your nice police friend called?”

“No. I’ve done nothing with the police since my return,” Sherlock said listlessly. “I suppose they’ve got used to working without me.”

“I’m sure they’ll get stuck soon enough,” Mrs Hudson assured him. “They never were much good without you, were they? Well… I’ll go on downstairs, then. You just call if you need anything.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you.”

She went to the doorway, hesitated a moment, then closed the door and went downstairs. He wondered what she would say if he called down and told her he needed a new dealer. Mycroft would know within minutes. 

Speaking of which: he heard a key in the door downstairs, then slow, measured footsteps on the stairs. Oh, God. Just what he needed today. How tedious. The footsteps reached the door to the flat. The door opened. 

He gave a prolonged sigh. “What.” 

A momentary pause, then the door closed and the tread changed as the shoes crossed from the tiled hallway onto the worn Victorian carpet. “They’re arguing,” Mycroft said, with that irritating smugness that always accompanied his imparting of a piece of information he considered especially delectable. He sat down in John’s chair. He had to know how much that irked him. It had always irked John, too, though he never said. Not aloud. 

“How was Brighton.” Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling, palms together under his chin.

“Hellishly crowded. Tourist trap,” Mycroft said, with immense disdain. When he vacationed (rarely), it was to exotic, unknown places in Polynesia. Mycroft would never deign to go to Brighton for a holiday.

“Should I even ask why you were there?”

“You just did.”

Sherlock gave another long sigh and decided not to respond. 

“You’re dressed,” Mycroft made a show of sounding both surprised and condescendingly impressed. “From what Mrs Hudson has been saying, I expected you to be lounging around in bed instead of lounging around in the sitting room. Small steps. I suppose you’re high on nicotine patches.”

Sherlock slowly swung his long (currently unappreciated) legs over the side of the sofa and sat up. “Why are you here, Mycroft? I assume you have a reason for bothering me.”

“You told me to watch him, make sure he wasn’t followed,” Mycroft reminded him. 

“Yes, while I was out of the country,” Sherlock said, fighting impatience. “Why on earth did you follow him to Brighton?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly. “When else would a man’s defenses be at their lowest than on his honeymoon?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose. Still, your interest in John is verging on the morbid.”

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.” The sly smile grew. “Don’t you want to know why they were arguing?”

“If I wanted to know, I’d have asked.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But you want to know, don’t you.” Mycroft waited, savouring the moment, then gave his grand pronouncement. “He’s not wearing his wedding ring.”

“I know, he lost it at the reception,” Sherlock returned, inordinately pleased to see Mycroft’s all-knowing confidence falter for a moment. 

“Lost it? How?”

“I have several ideas. How long did it take her to notice?”

“Not long,” Mycroft replied. “That night. She was so angry that it took three days for them to consummate the marriage. _That_ should cheer you up, if nothing else does.”

He felt the corner of his mouth quirk. Poor John. (Private satisfaction. Conceal from Mycroft.) Too bad the honeymoon was more than three days long. “What did he tell her, about the ring?”

“That it must have been stolen. She accused him of being careless with it.”

Interesting. What motivation could she possibly have for stealing the ring and then abusing John over its loss? Peculiar. A power play? Yes. Something to hold over his head for the remainder of the marriage. She would win every argument, every difference of opinion, have ammunition for any (perceived) wrongdoing on John’s part. Ghastly. Dreadful. He was (clearly) no expert on marriage ( _not_ his area), but he felt a rare pang of empathy. (Dr Smythwyck would have been pleased, damn her.) John was in for a miserable marriage. No surprise there; he had met Mary. He wondered what would have happened had he been allowed to make his return sooner. John had met her six months earlier. Would he have changed his mind, knowing that Sherlock was back? Was he regretting it now? Did he know that the return of his limp had everything to do with having chosen a quiet, married life? Presumably; he’d been shown the evidence of this before. Perhaps domestic fights with Mary would provide him with the war zone he was craving. (Highly unlikely.) 

Mycroft was watching him; he could feel it. “What do you want me to say?”

“Where is the ring, Sherlock?”

He gave a short laugh. “You think _I_ have it? Is that why you’re here? To ask if I stole John’s wedding ring? Please.”

Mycroft leaned forward on his umbrella. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Sherlock let his eyes bore into his brother’s (annoying) forehead. “Search the flat, then,” he said, monotone. 

The scrutiny continued several moments longer. Finally Mycroft leaned back. “I believe you,” he said at last. “Bit of a mystery, then. I imagine you’re working on it.”

“Yes, it’s my top priority. Don’t you have anything better to be doing, Mycroft?”

“Sadly, I do, I’m afraid. I’m expected for tea with… well, I really can’t say.”

“I really don’t care.”

“I’d best be going,” Mycroft said, as if he hadn’t heard. “Be in touch.”

Was that a command or a threat? He didn’t care. He ignored Mycroft as he betook himself back down the stairs. It occurred to him several minutes later that perhaps the visit was actually meant to cheer him up. Mycroft had the most twisted, perverse notions about human interrelations sometimes. Honestly. 

***

_Back from Brighton? Could use your help with something._

The response came almost immediately, which shouldn’t have pleased him as much as it did. _Just walked in the door. Lestrade called?_

_Yes, finally! Bodies just found in Hyde Park. Mutilated! Should be fun!_

_You have an interesting sense of fun. Meet you there in fifteen._

He smiled at the screen and put the phone in his pocket, ran down the stairs to get a cab. Lestrade was waiting for him at the tape barrier they’d put up around the area. He lifted it and said, “Thanks for coming. I know that, er, some of the others might be a bit… you know. Sorry. For the record, I’m glad you’re here.” He looked around. “Where’s John? Still on honeymoon, or is he not… doing this with you any more?”

“He’s on his way.” Sherlock kept his voice deliberately free of inflection. So they all thought that John would stop working with him, just because he was married? (Touch of smugness: that should piss Donovan off.)

Lestrade was nearly successful at hiding his surprise. “Oh. Right, then. Good. I’ll have someone send him in when he gets here, then. Meanwhile, this way.” He led Sherlock over to the bodies, where the medical examiner stood aside, glaring. Sherlock looked briefly around. Anderson and Donovan stood fifteen meters away, not looking at him but obviously aware of his presence and not happy about it. Donovan glanced at him just before he looked away and he felt a lance of something closely resembling hatred stab through his gut. (Surprisingly strong emotion.) (Startling.) He turned his attention to the corpses, vaguely aware that he was bothered. Normally the antipathy didn’t reach him at all, or if anything, he welcomed it. Almost revelled in it. Enough. Delete. John would be there soon. Surely. He knelt by the first body, staring at the face. What was left of the face. 

“Jesus. That’s brutal.”

Rush of warmth. (Suppress.) “It is, isn’t it,” Sherlock said neutrally. 

John knelt across from him, touching the body’s left wrist gingerly. “Have they mentioned a cause of death yet?”

“No. I think they were waiting for us.” Sherlock glanced at him with a small smile. 

John returned it. “Good,” he said. He bent, sniffed, prodded here, then stated the obvious. “I’d say dead about thirty hours, maybe a little more. Cause of death pretty clear, the skulls have been smashed in from the rear on these two, from the front and side on the third. I’d say with a blunt object.”

“A blunt wooden object,” Sherlock amended, pulling a small flake of wood out of the hair. “They were beaten.” He examined the bit of wood. “This has paint on it, not enough for the entire object to have been painted. Lettering, I’d say.” He held his hand out to Lestrade for a plastic evidence bag and deposited it without looking. “And there’s a bloodied pocket knife here in the grass, but it’s clearly not the murder object. Too small, not enough blood.” Lestrade collected that, too.

John pulled another bit of wood out of the victim’s hair and frowned at it. “A bat of some sort? Cricket? Baseball?”

Sherlock pointed. “Look at these lesions. Too narrow for either of those.”

“Field hockey? Lacrosse?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Both sports tend to use metal sticks these days. More likely an oar or paddle, I think.” He thought for a moment. “An oar.”

John looked instinctively toward the Serpentine, about twenty-five meters off through the trees. “Why an oar, specifically?”

“I believe they rent row boats and pedal boats at the boathouse, no canoes or kayaks,” Sherlock said. “Hence: an oar.” He extracted a longer splinter of wood. “This piece has varnish on it.” He gave it to Lestrade. 

“So someone attacked these three with an _oar_? One by one, or are we looking for more than one attacker and oar?” Lestrade was looking frustrated, nothing new there. 

Sherlock stood up and looked at the other two bodies, sliding wallets out of pockets, taking in watches, jewellery, markings other than the fatal injuries, then took a closer look at the woman, the state of her clothes, her fingers (knuckles), lack of ring. Lestrade waited impatiently. John came around and knelt again, grimacing at his right knee folded under himself. “Look at her clothing,” Sherlock said. 

John looked, brow creasing. (Concerned. Empathy: always John’s first reaction.) “She looks a bit messed up, doesn’t she.”

“She’s dishevelled. More so than from the oar attack alone. The autopsy should show the results clearly, but… yes.” He looked at the third man. “She was attacked.”

“By whom, exactly? What makes you so sure?” Lestrade wanted to know.

“ _Look_ , really look,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Bruises on her wrists. She was held. Abrasions on her knuckles, a broken nail: she struggled. Skirt pushed up, it wouldn’t have lifted that high just in a fall. Someone pushed her down; there are grass stains here on the backs of both shoes. She tried to stop herself from falling backwards. Primal instinct. More bruising on her thighs, thumb prints on the insides pointed upward, bit difficult to give yourself bruises like that, don’t you think? The background on her phone is a photo of herself and this man – ” he indicated the first man. “Her boyfriend. And this man – ” he indicated the third victim – “brother of the boyfriend. Same last name, three years apart based on their driver’s licenses, facial resemblance. If not a brother, than a cousin, but brother is more likely. So far, so obvious.”

John was watching him with a slight smile. “So who attacked them?”

“A park employee. Look.” Sherlock lifted the second most obvious piece of evidence after the pocket knife from the grass: a plastic name card holder on a chain, a smear of blood on the plastic. The name card had been removed, but that would hardly pose a large problem. He handed it to Lestrade without looking. “Find out which park employee has missed a shift within the last thirty hours and you have your killer.”

“Motivation, though?”

Did he really have to do all of their work? Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Probably some kind of boring love triangle or some such thing – oh. Oh!” A myriad of thoughts flew through his mind, the pieces sliding together. Yes, that fit – yes! Obvious. Obvious! 

“Well?” Lestrade was waiting, hands on his hips. 

“The employee will be injured,” Sherlock said. “Check the hospitals and clinics for any recent victims of small cuts or punctures that would match the pocket knife. You’ll get a blood match from the knife.”

John was watching him, waiting. For his sake, Sherlock decided to explain. It had been so long, anyway. “For some reason, the two brothers leave the girl alone. Perhaps they’re talking and don’t want her listening, who knows. She wanders off. Thirty hours ago, it was about nine o’clock in the evening. An hour past sunset at this time of year. It would have been dark here in the trees, not much light from those lanterns.” He pointed at the nearest one, fifteen meters away. “The employee sees her, attacks. He’s just off shift, takes advantage of what he thinks is a lone female. But she’s not alone, is she? They struggle, the boyfriend hears and comes to her defense, but he’s only got a pocket knife. The employee definitely worked in the boat house. It closed an hour ago; he was cleaning up. Perhaps he found the oar somewhere and was returning it. He finds himself outnumbered between the girl and the two men, but he’s got an oar. The boyfriend comes over first and she’s already in the grass. He’s slowed down by the knife cut, but he’s still the one with the oar. He’s strong. A large man, I’d say, look at the spread of the bruises on her thighs. He beats all three of them to death to keep them quiet. A repeat offender; he’s done this sort of thing before.” He turned to Lestrade. “He’ll have known to dispose of the murder weapon, just as he knew to dispose of any witnesses. Drag the Serpentine and you’ll find your oar. No prints, but all you need to do is find a missing park employee with a criminal record and large hands.”

“Right. Thanks. Though the employee could be anywhere by now,” Lestrade pointed out. 

Sherlock shook his head. “He won’t have got far with that wound, did you see the pocket knife? Blood all the way down to the hilt. It’s only a two-inch blade, but that’s too deep a cut to just put a plaster on and hope for the best, wouldn’t you say? He’ll have sought assistance.”

“Amazing,” John murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. He caught Sherlock’s look and went quiet. (Embarrassed? He never used to be embarrassed by that.)

Their eyes met and John looked away again just as quickly. (Was this suddenly awkward? Why?)

“All right, I guess we’ll start searching hospitals,” Lestrade said. “Thanks. Good to have you back.” He walked Sherlock and John to the edge of the crime scene tape. 

“Call me if you need me,” Sherlock said, meaning it. Lestrade nodded and went back to Anderson and Donovan. He looked at John. “Dinner?” (Expectation: refusal, excuse about Mary.)

Hesitation. Check for time. Yes: he was going to refuse. “I should go home,” John said, strangely reticent. “We just got back, I should unpack…”

“Right.” Sherlock said stiffly. He started walking toward the edge of the park, John following and exuding an air of apology. Sherlock said nothing; what was there to say? John had one hand in his pocket and the other on the cane, limping heavily. More heavily than before the wedding. Sherlock hated it. He had chosen a pace that John could keep up with and thought of the many times they had run through parts of London together. Would that he knew how to bring those days back.

“You could ask how the honeymoon was,” John said finally. 

“How was Brighton.” It came out entirely without inflection, or interest.

John sighed. Seemed to be thinking, possibly debating a retort at Sherlock’s (displayed) interest level. After awhile he said, “Not great, honestly. After the first few days it was better.”

“Did you find your ring?”

John waved his bare hand in answer. “She’s furious about it.”

“I would imagine.”

They were coming to the edge of the park. “Too late to change my mind about dinner?” John asked, sounding wistful.

Sherlock almost smiled. “Of course not. Chinese?”

“That would be perfect. That place near our – near Baker Street still open?”

“According to Mrs Hudson, yes.”

A glance. “Have you been there since – ”

“You were there the last time I was,” Sherlock said evenly. “Taxi!”

Surprise. (Pleased? Difficult to tell.) John climbed into the cab behind him and closed the door. Everything was all wrong, but this was still better than it could have been. 

***

Three days passed. Lestrade called to say that they’d caught the murderer and found the oar, exactly as predicted. “I know,” Sherlock said, and hung up. Mrs Hudson still sighed every time she saw the skulls, but she’d taken to dusting them. She’d also started pestering him about eating. She didn’t mention John. 

He put the kidney he’d been observing back into the refrigerator and went to the violin. He couldn’t seem to start a piece. There was nothing he wanted to play. He stood at the window, gently tapping the bow against his knee and searched his mind for a piece or compose. Nothing. He sighed, put the violin down and picked up his phone. 

_Bored. What are you doing?_

Five minutes later, a response. _At the surgery until 4. No experiments?_

_It takes a kidney four hours after death before the nephron releases the toxins into the surrounding tissue._

_Did Mycroft give your equipment back then?_

_He claims Mrs Hudson had it in boxes, but I know better._

_Got a patient coming in. Have to go._

_Dinner later?_

No response. Right, patient. Bloody patients. He waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Finally. 

_I have this wife, you realize. She expects me to dine with her semi-regularly._

_She’s making meatloaf. You hate meatloaf._

_Do I even want to know how you know that?_

_You’ve always hated meatloaf._

Again, no response. Another patient? Thirty-five minutes this time. Sherlock had picked up one of the skulls and was looking between its teeth with a magnifying glass when his phone pinged at last. 

_She did make meatloaf but she says she’s going out with a friend and leaving it in the fridge. Where do you want to meet?_

Sherlock smiled. Thought. Typed: _Meet me here at Baker Street and we can decide later._

_All right._

***

John had eschewed just ordering in. (Reluctant to be alone together? Possibly.)

They sat in a dark back corner of John’s favourite Italian place, kitty-corner on the benches. “I have a question,” John said, studying a bun as he buttered it. 

“You don’t normally announce the fact,” Sherlock said mildly, watching John’s hands. Surgeon’s hands. Steady. 

John smiled and frowned at the same time. “It’s not about the meatloaf. Although – ”

“You told me the story about the time your father forced you to stay at the table until you finished your meatloaf. You’ve hated it ever since.”

“Obviously the question would have been how you knew Mary was making meatloaf, not how you knew I didn’t like it,” John said. Touch of exasperation. “I’m not even going to bother asking about that.”

“Then what’s your question?”

He put the bread down. “Why _did_ you decide to get a flatmate? I never understood. All that posturing about ‘going to look at a place’, when you clearly already lived there, ringing the doorbell and everything. Why the pretense? And why me, of all people?”

Sherlock sat back a little, wary. He took a sip of wine (a very nice cabernet merlot they’d picked up on the way) and considered his answer. “I had only just moved in the week before,” he said. 

“You made _that_ amount of mess in a week? Wait, never mind: you were in the middle of a case. Of course you had. But why pretend?” John took a bite of the bun, brow still furrowed. 

“I’d never had a flatmate before,” Sherlock said quietly, more to his glass than to John. “I wasn’t… sure how it was done.”

“How it was… you mean, asking someone if they’d like to live with you?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John went on, his voice softer. “So you made it sound like how you thought the normal conversation would go. Okay. I get that. But why did you suddenly decide you wanted a flatmate? If Mycroft was paying the rent anyway…”

“He wasn’t. Well, he paid in advance and I paid him back as we went. Your rent payments went to Mrs Hudson, don’t worry on that score.” He drank a little more wine. 

“Hadn’t even thought of that, actually,” John said honestly. (Always honest.) “You haven’t answered the other part. What made you decide it was time to have a flatmate at all?”

(Uncertainty. Was this deep water? It seemed like it. What was John really asking?) Sherlock inhaled, slowly. “I hadn’t. Decided on having a flatmate. Stamford had suggested it to me that morning but I never gave it a second thought.”

“But?” John was waiting, lips parted, brow creased with some sort of anxiety. 

“But then the door opened, and there you were.” Sherlock gave his best professional smile, a little too tight at the corners. Why this particular line of questioning, why now?

John refused to be put off by his public face, went on doggedly. “And, what, I just… seemed right? I changed your mind?”

“Evidently,” Sherlock said lightly. He opened his menu. “I think I’ll have the parmigiana.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Or perhaps a risotto.”

“Sherlock. This is important to me.” John tugged the menu out of his hands and laid it on the table. 

He felt defenseless without it, somehow. John’s eyes were boring into his face. “What.” It was clipped. 

“Look at me.”

Sherlock raised his eyes from his hands on the table, something defensive hovering on his lips but refusing to come out. He couldn’t speak. 

“You looked at me, and just… knew that you wanted to live with me?” John asked, gentle, but firm. (Always that combination.) “Have I got it right?”

“Evidently,” Sherlock said again, lips hardly moving. 

“Could you… I don’t know, say more about that, maybe?”

A shrug. Too jerky. “That’s all there is to it. It was instinctive. You just seemed like the right sort of person.”

Somehow, this was the answer John appeared to be looking for. He smiled, the tension in his brow relaxing (not completely, but mostly). “Did I?” He seemed to know Sherlock wouldn’t respond to this. (What was there to say to that? It was rhetorical.) “I wish I’d been that sure about you. Then again, I suppose I never was.”

It was meant lightly, as a joke (mostly), but the underlying part that wasn’t a joke stung. (Since when had he become so emotional? That was supposed to be long past.) “Fewer skulls in Queen’s Gate Gardens, I’d imagine,” he said, a little too stiffly.

John smiled, not catching the stiffness. “I saw Mrs Hudson downstairs when I got to Baker Street. She said you’ve got four now.”

“I needed four.”

“So, what was it about me, then?” John was leaning forward, still smiling. It was almost as though he was flirting. (Preposterous idea. He hadn’t thought that since that first time, at Angelo’s.)

He felt put on the spot. Trapped. Why did they have to talk about this? Had marriage made John go sentimental? He picked the menu up again. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t… know?” John sounded disbelieving. “ _You_?”

“Mmm.”

“Sherlock.” Now he was impatient, almost angry.

“Do we have to talk about this?” He couldn’t keep the impatience out of his own voice. What _was_ John on about?

“You seemed keen enough to talk about it at the wedding,” John said, a definite edge to the anger now. 

“That was then.” Sherlock closed the menu without having looked at it. “Are you ready to order? I am.” He signalled the server, then picked up the wine bottle and refilled John’s glass. 

John waited until they both gave their orders and the waiter retreated again before sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I bother,” he said. “How about this, then. Do you have any ideas about who might have taken my ring? I haven’t made a police report or anything yet, but I suppose I’ll have to.”

New dangerous territory. “I’m working on it,” Sherlock said carefully, not meeting John’s eye. 

“Are you? Thanks,” John said. He sounded a bit surprised. “Any ideas yet?”

“A few. Tell me more about Brighton,” Sherlock said abruptly.

“Honeymoon,” John said. 

“What?”

“It’s called a honeymoon. You never call it that.”

“I know what it was. And you went to Brighton for it. You haven’t told me much about it. I want to know more.”

John studied him for awhile. “Do you.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I do.” Sherlock picked up one of the buns for the first time and pulled it apart. John liked it when he ate and looking casual was of importance at the moment. 

John’s shoulders relaxed a little. “It was crowded,” he said. “As you said it would be. But nice. I like going to the shore. That was something I missed in Afghanistan, being near water. Even just the Thames, you take it for granted until you’re in the desert.” He thought a little. “We walked around a lot. Mary wanted to shop ,” he said wryly, giving Sherlock an opportunity to react. 

He didn’t. “You said she didn’t stay angry about the ring.”

“She went on about it rather a lot the first few days, but then she gave it a rest. Thank God.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

John looked at him strangely. Oh. Perhaps he was being too intense. Sherlock changed his expression to one of concerned interest. John continued. “Well, she said it was a sign of starting out our marriage carelessly, that it was a bad sign. I told her I thought it had been stolen and she said I must have lost it, fiddling with it so much.”

“Were you fiddling with it?”

“A little, I suppose. I was worried it would slip off. I said that, and she was angry about that, too, said I was trying to make it sound like her fault. She wasn’t too pleased with me, I can tell you that. Wouldn’t even – ” He stopped, looked embarrassed. 

Sherlock knew the end of the sentence but spared him the knowledge that he did. From John’s expression, he suspected he’d worked it out already anyway. “But after the beginning, no further mentions of it?” 

“None whatsoever. But she would look at my hand sometimes and just sigh,” John said. (Frustrated.) “Why are women so complicated?” He glanced at Sherlock and laughed. “Wait, what am I talking about? How would _you_ know?”

(Pain. John didn’t usually say things like that.) He recoiled into himself. 

John caught it. “No, that’s not what I meant – I just meant that if, or when you have girlfriends, I’m sure you always know what to say. I’m sure you’re always smooth. I’ve seen you. Irene Adler. I remember all too well. You can pull it off when you want to, be sexy and debonair and all that. I didn’t mean… you know.” He waved vaguely. 

(John thought he could be sexy?) John’s face was faintly pink. Embarrassed by his faux-pas. The worry lines around his mouth deepened. So expressive. Sherlock didn’t know what to say, but was spared the need to find a response by the arrival of their meals. 

***

Sherlock settled the bill and pulled his coat on. “Let’s go home,” he said. John let it go, didn’t remind him that it was _homes_ not _home_ and walked with him to Baker Street, ten minutes away. “Coming in?” Sherlock asked. 

John shook his head, looked toward the street. “I should get a cab,” he said. He looked back at Sherlock, gave a short laugh. “I’ve missed walking around London with you late at night.”

Sherlock thought it prudent not to mention all the times he’d followed John at night in the past three years. “We used to _run_ around London late at night.”

John looked down at his leg. “Yes, well… I don’t know. Getting old, I suppose.”

 _It’s psychosomatic._ “You’re not old.”

John sighed, looked ruefully at the door to 221B. “Do you think things will ever just… feel normal again? So much has changed.”

“Not for me.”

That got him a long look. “Well,” John said slowly. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you chose me that day, in Barts. Glad I moved in. I’ve missed it.”

 _Missed you_ , Sherlock heard. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said.

John’s mouth opened, closed. Opened again. Looked back at the street. “I should… I should go,” he said. As though waiting for confirmation. 

Sherlock said nothing. John didn’t need to leave. It wasn’t even that late, only midnight.

“Right,” John said, as though Sherlock had spoken. “Well.” He waved at a taxi and it slowed at the kerb. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Sherlock said, and watched the cab drive away.


	5. Only Lunch/Astounding Gaps in Knowledge

**Chapter Five: Only Lunch/Astounding Gaps in Knowledge**

Lunch with John. Restate: lunch with John and Mary. Sherlock stood outside the restaurant and debated leaving. 

Mary’s idea. No evidence but he suspected it was true. But she’d made John suggest it to him. (He could hear her voice. “He’s your friend, John, it only makes sense!”) And John had an amazing ability to convey awkwardness even in a text. _It’s only lunch. If you’re not busy._ Definitely Mary’s idea. He wouldn’t leave. He needed to observe her further, anyway. 

They appeared around the corner half a block away, Mary walking half a pace in front of John. Asserting dominance. In public she tended to play the role of the secondary partner, slipping her arm through John’s and looking sideways up at him. Indirect. Playful. Flirtatious. But here, she was clearly walking in front of him on purpose. What was the gambit? John had his cane and was limping badly. Was she embarrassed by the limp? Surely John had limped when they first met. Sherlock could feel Mary’s eyes on him. She said something to John, something that came with a smile, but whatever it was made John wince. It diminished him. (Diminished them both?)

Sherlock felt the taste of anger prickle on his tongue, metallic. He pressed his lips together and silently decided to be particularly nice to John today, if possible. 

Mary reached him first, by two paces; she’d increased her speed at the last moment and left John behind. “Sherlock. Lovely to see you.” She was all smiles, her face a solid mask. Unreadable.

He said something acceptable and looked at John. John: readable. He was angry. Not at him. (Good.) Worry lines deep around his eyes; he looked tired. Embarrassed by the limp slowing him down. (Note to self: find a new way to fix it. It would have to be particularly clever to prevent John from catching on.) He looked like Mary had dressed him, buttoned shirt fastened at his throat, pressed trousers. Dress up the husband and parade him about. Lovely game. Their eyes met. “Hello,” Sherlock said. 

John gave him a small, tight smile, silently apologising for his mood. “Hi. Restaurant full?”

“A bit, but I put our names on the list,” Sherlock said. 

“Good thing someone was on time!” Mary said brightly. “Warm day, isn’t it? We had to hurry, we left a little late.”

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that the restaurant was five blocks from their street. (Mary’s choice.) “Perhaps our table is ready,” he said instead. 

“Let’s go and see, shall we?” John said. He was still tense, words coming out terse and clipped. He took Mary by the elbow in a none-too-subtle effort to reassert control. She gave him a plastic smile and allowed herself to be escorted inside, Sherlock left to trail behind them. 

They sat. Mary began to chatter about people that Sherlock didn’t know. John appeared to be at sea with several of her references as well, although she would prod him – “You remember, John, we met them at that reception in the art gallery!” And John would feign remembrance and make the right sorts of sounds. Sherlock found himself noticing how much John did that, how accommodating he was. (Had always been.)

“Now, Sherlock,” Mary said, suddenly turning her full attention on him. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about.”

Direct-on, that gaze was quite intense. She had blue eyes, slightly tilted, giving her face a somewhat feline appearance, not unpleasantly so. Her mouth was small but full-lipped. Like a doll. A round face with very pale skin, (falsely) blond hair styled becomingly. He didn’t know that he’d ever felt so much repulsion for a singular face before. “What’s that?” he asked, making an effort to be polite. (John had better appreciate it.)

“In all the time he’s known you, John doesn’t seem to be able to remember any of the people you’ve dated,” Mary said, eyes widening in apparent disbelief. “I was asking, because you know, I’ve got a lot of single friends, and of course it would be so nice if we could someone for you – unless you’re already in a relationship, of course.”

John set his glass down with a thunk. “Mary.”

She ignored him, still smiling vapidly at Sherlock. The air grew thick. Sherlock felt himself very aware of all of the surrounding noise all of a sudden, aware that he was supposed to speak. 

John came to his rescue. “I told you, sweetheart. Sherlock considers himself married to his work. He doesn’t date. That I know of,” he added, glancing uncertainly at Sherlock. 

Mary’s eyes were boring into his face. “Precisely,” he said. “I don’t date.”

Mary laughed. To Sherlock it sounded like small rocks dropping onto the tablecloth: percussive, abrupt, hard. “That’s what John said,” she said, sounding very amused. “But I told him he had be mistaken, or else just a tiny bit naïve. Sorry, darling,” she added, putting her hand over John’s on the table and patting it. John lowered his face a little. “But from what you’ve told me, there’s a lot to this friend of yours. I daresay Sherlock has his little secrets.” She turned that brilliant, cold gaze at Sherlock. “If he prefers not to share, that’s his business, isn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. She was ridiculing him. Trying to make it sound like he kept things from John. Her face was like shuttered windows. Unreadable. (Why?) He sensed a deep antipathy in her, not through anything he could see or logically deduce, but it was unquestionably present. “I don’t date,” he repeated. “And if I had during the time we lived together, John assuredly would have known.”

John looked at him. “I’ve never pretended to know everything about you,” he said. “But I thought I might have noticed you bringing someone around.”

“John,” Sherlock said impatiently, “when we were had a case, you were with me almost every minute.”

“And between cases, you were usually wreaking havoc on the kitchen, the lab at Bart’s, or lying on the sofa.” A smile, a real one, the corners of his mouth tucking in that way they did. An apology for the subject matter was in there somewhere. 

Mary leaned forward. “I’m embarrassing you,” she said, somewhat apologetically. (Genuine? Consideration: no.) “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m just inquisitive by nature. And I can’t believe that any man can just turn that side of himself off altogether. Perhaps you just haven’t found what you’re looking for yet. What was your youth like? With a face like yours, I’m sure you managed to have some fun.”

“Mary,” John said, more sharply than earlier. “That’s enough. Let’s talk about something else.”

“It’s just curiosity,” Mary said, smiling at him. She squeezed his hand. “I’m just trying to get to know your best friend, and from what you’ve said, his work sounds pretty hush-hush. We can trade stories about all those wild oats we sowed back in the day and soon enough Sherlock and I will have a bromance of our own going on.”

Extremely unlikely. Sherlock observed her amusement. Thought very, very briefly of his days at university. Flash of remembrance of sitting in the back corners of classrooms, bored out of his mind. (Isolated.) Full stop. He said nothing, just met Mary’s gaze evenly. 

John was rubbing his free hand over his (newly-cut) hair in evident discomfort. Sherlock discovered he felt a stab of pity for him; if he himself were almost anyone else, any other man, John could surely have changed the subject to cricket scores or something terribly dull, something safe and suitable for Saturday lunch in South Kensington. But Sherlock, as he would have – had said himself, was not the Commonwealth. “Mary,” John said again, slowly. 

“No fun stories?” Mary asked, her tone light and insouciant. “Or just none that you want to share with us?” ( _Us_. There with was: Us versus you.)

“No fun stories,” Sherlock repeated, trying (mostly) not to sound like he was ridiculing her infantile wording. 

“Oh good, let’s order,” John said in profound relief as the server came by. 

Sherlock gave his order automatically, his thoughts elsewhere. He wondered if he was supposed to be the one to propose a suitable conversational subject but could think of nothing. Mary was likely not interested in the separation of digestive acids in the spleen and gall bladder after death. (John would have been.) He had never wondered why he wasn’t interested in these tedious things that other people so liked to discuss: trivia, all of it. Pointless, uninteresting, irrelevant trivia. Celebrity gossip and sports scores and the weather. Useless only when relevant to something of actual importance. Delete, in other words. 

“I was thinking about starting my blog again,” John said suddenly into the small silence that had formed after the menus were cleared away. 

Mary looked at him. “Your old blog, from years ago?”

“Yes,” John said. “I used to keep track of the cases we worked on, write them up for the public. Some things were too confidential and Mycroft’s people would come in and redact them, which was always maddening, but some of it was pretty big stuff.”

“Mycroft?” 

“Sherlock’s brother. Practically runs the British government. I can’t believe I’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Presumably you were busy talking about more pleasant subjects,” Sherlock said dryly. 

John laughed. “Presumably,” he agreed. For Mary’s benefit, he went explained. “He’s a bit of a smarmy git, to be honest .I was… angry with him for a very long time.”

Mary searched his face, the glittering mirth gone, replaced by something more sober. “Why?” she asked. 

John hesitated. “It’s a long story,” he said, with a glance at Sherlock. “I suppose I should let it go, now. Anyway,” he said, “I’ve missed writing.”

“But what will you write about?” Mary asked. “You can’t go posting people’s medical histories on the internet.”

John nodded toward Sherlock. “His cases,” he said. “What else?” 

“Our cases,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Right, yes,” John said, though he trailed off slightly. (Mary.) “Your public deserves to know that you’re back in action.”

Sherlock flicked a look at Mary. She was still looking at John as though seeing something she had never seen there before. 

After they had eaten, John went to the counter to settle the bill. Mary stood and allowed Sherlock to help her into her coat. She had been rather quiet for the rest of the meal. Now, she turned to him, buttoned the coat, and gave him a long, cool look. (Smile like a dagger.) “John is a very kind man,” she said. “And I think you should know that he firmly believes that you must be asexual. You can tell him the truth, you know.”

Sherlock felt his brows contract. “Which is… what, according to you?”

Mary put her hand on his forearm. He looked at it, resenting the intrusion. “It would be better for you not to keep secrets from John, if you want to be his friend. He has a lot of faith in what you tell him, obviously, so he probably believes that you’re being honest with him when you tell him you don’t – how should I put this? Get around. He would never judge you for being gay. You must know that. But, unfortunately – well, not for me – _he’s_ not. He belongs to me now. And that’s all either of us really needs to know about it.” She patted his arm, as though consoling him. 

Sherlock pulled it out of her grasp and could only stare at her; his brain refused to provide his mouth with words to utter. He felt his lips part, but nothing came out. 

John came back then, pulling on his jacket. “Everyone set?” He stopped, looked from Sherlock to Mary. “Did I… miss something here?” he asked, his tone carefully light. 

Sherlock still couldn’t speak. He felt as though his internal organs were combusting. He pressed his mouth into a firm line and pulled his coat around him, though the day was really too warm for it. 

“Everything’s fine,” Mary assured him. “Isn’t it, Sherlock? I think we’re ready to go, aren’t we?”

John was looking at Sherlock with those worried lines between his eyebrows. “All right?” he asked. Concerned. Gentle. (Always gentle.) “Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a nondescript sound. Mary was pulling John by the hand toward the door, John still looking back at Sherlock. He made his feet move to follow them out. Once on the sidewalk, John was talking, something about being glad he’d come. Another monosyllable, clipped. Unimportant. Irrelevant. John reached toward him to touch his arm and Sherlock instinctively jerked away. Without a word, he turned (hurt glimpsed in John’s eyes) and strode away. 

***

_Answer your texts, Sherlock._

_Sherlock. I’m concerned. I’ve texted you six times in the last two hours. Is everything all right?_

Sherlock picked up the phone, read, set it back down beside the microscope. He adjusted the focus and wished he could somehow work at Bart’s without Molly’s presence. Frankly, he’d always wished that, but he had specifically avoided her since the wedding. She would talk, and she would say things he had less than zero desire to hear. But her microscopes were stronger. The phone pinged again.

_I’m coming over. Are you home?_

Think quickly. Sherlock thought, typed rapidly. _Not now. Busy._

_Need help? Second pair of eyes to give you an inferior opinion?_

He almost smiled at that. _I’m all right. Thank you._

_All right as in you don’t want help or all right as in, there’s no reason you’ve been ignoring all my texts for the past three days?_

Sigh. He put the phone down. Could feel the silence stretch out between them. It was Tuesday afternoon. John would be at the clinic. He would be waiting. Possibly on a break between patients, holding his phone and waiting. Would have started to consider texting Sherlock again, debating whether that would be too much, too persistent. 

_I don’t need assistance. It’s just an ocular dissection._

_Did you microwave the eye again?_ Humour. A reminder of the old days. (What was John trying to do?)

_Not this time._

_Is it for a case?_

_Possibly. Depends._

_You would have told me if it was a case, though, right? You know I’m still up for all that._

Sherlock didn’t respond, letting the silence grow again. If he told John that Lestrade had asked him to quietly do some background, John would be hurt. He had indeed not invited him, after all. He thought, then finally typed _It’s just research at this stage._

The response came immediately. _Dinner tonight? Mary’s seeing some boring friends from Gloucestershire. I could use an excuse._

_Afraid I need to stay close to the flat._

_I’ll come over. We can get take-away._

Another pause, his thumbs brushing over the screen. Then _Fine. Come over if you want to._

_See you later, then._

He could almost hear John’s relief. 

*** 

As the table was covered with lab equipment and needed sterilising, they sat on the sofa and ate there. Exactly as they used to, only now there was an elephant in the room. John seemed quite determined to ignore it, however. Sherlock watched him warily and followed his lead. John chatted about his patients, said he’d had a pint with Stamford, told a story about a colleague, and gave a wide birth to anything potentially hazardous. 

They watched the news after they’d eaten. Sherlock remarked on the lack of crime. Pointed out that warmer weather usually brought on more crime than colder weather and said that this June was boring. John laughed at that and pointed out in return that most people were actually happy to have less crime. “But then, you’re not most people, are you?” he said, turning his head to smile at Sherlock. There was something strange, almost wistful in his eyes. 

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the television. “No.”

“Thank God for that,” John said, sliding down the sofa an inch or two, relaxing into it. “Most people are so boring.”

Sherlock glanced at him. It was the sort of thing _he_ would say. Was John making a joke? John met his look and smiled, elbowed him. Oh. It was a joke. He could feel that the crease at the bridge of his nose was still there. He was probably supposed to be smiling. Too late. 

***

The results of the dissection went as he’d suspected, and the eye became evidence, not theoretical research. He decided not to mention it to John. Lestrade called on Thursday morning and said they’d found the other eye, and not far from it, the rest of the body. “Will you come?” Lestrade asked, too obviously lowering his voice in attempt to not be overheard. 

Sherlock sighed. It wasn’t that he wanted to be awarded a Nobel prize for his work (although genius appreciates an audience), but to be allowed to work without being actively hampered by incompetent idiots would be nice. “Where?”

Lestrade told him, and he got into the first taxi to pass. 

An hour later, his phone pinged. He stepped around the debris, some of which was bio-hazardous, stripped off his gloves and pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. John, four texts. He’d only heard the most recent alert. 

_Do you mind if I come by? Left my jumper the other night._

_You home? I’m at Baker Street and no one’s answering._

_Never mind, Mrs Hudson just came back. Where are you? Bart’s?_

_Is it a secret or something? Where are you?_

Sherlock sighed. Typed. _Eye turned out to be part of a case after all. Thought you’d be at work._

A longish pause. (Was John hurt?) Then: _Too late for me to be any help?_

It was, but there was no need to say that. _Of course not. 31 Lyndhurst Road in Peckham._

_Be there as quick as I can._

The medical team had already begun clearing up the bits of scattered flesh by the time John arrived and was suited up. The floor was so filthy that even Sherlock had opted for the protective footwear, for once. Lestrade spotted John and hailed one of the examiner’s assistants, instructed her to let John have a look at a severed hand. Sherlock stood back, let him have a look. 

“This is quite something,” John said, concern spilling out of him as he held the hand toward the light in its medical evidence bag. “Really quite something. Sherlock – these marks here, any ideas?”

“Plastic thread,” Sherlock said. “There was some wrapped around the face as well. It cuts flesh quite cleanly, though of course it wouldn’t be strong enough to use on bone. Copper wire was also used on the ankles.”

“Was there a bone saw?”

“Nothing that civilised, I’m afraid. We’re not exactly dealing with a surgeon. The cuts were messy, possibly even manual tears going by the state of the skin in some places, though that wouldn’t have been possible for all of it.” Sherlock nodded to where another group of medics were lifting an entire leg onto a board. 

“This swelling in the nail beds,” John said. “That could have come from lead poisoning.” He showed Sherlock, who hummed his agreement. “So – he was poisoned, then dismembered?”

“More than that,” Sherlock said. “Not sure how yet, but from the eyes and I suspect the lungs as well, once the autopsy confirms it, we can see that he wasn’t only poisoned the once. It had been a slow, ongoing process. One of the neighbours found the first eye on the lawn, though it might have come from an animal or something. She called a vet and the vet called the police. Lestrade called me and asked me to have a look.”

“That is… horrible,” John said. 

“Yes.” Sherlock looked around. “Lestrade only really wanted me to confirm the poisoning. They’ve got a lead, a disgruntled coworker of the victim. Seems it may be fairly simple.”

“But – the long-term poisoning?”

“The victim worked in a metal working shop,” Sherlock said, by way of explanation. 

John got it at once. (Sherlock was pleased. He’d become faster over the years.) “So it would have been easy to expose him to lead fumes, puncture holes in his safety mask or something.”

“And he would have had access to the plastic thread and copper wire, of course.” John nodded. “So are you saying that Lestrade has a handle on it?”

“I think so, yes,” Sherlock said. “I told you it wasn’t really a case. Well, it is, just not one they can’t handle, for once. If it’s the coworker, which seems obvious enough, it’s just another open-and-shut homicide.” 

John nodded. “Right.” Looked at Sherlock. “So, you leaving, then?”

“I suppose so,” Sherlock said. He went to Lestrade, confirmed that they were all right from there (he’d been on the verge of leaving when John’s texts came, anyway) and John followed him out. 

“Let’s walk to a main road. No cabs here,” Sherlock said. It was growing dark and Peckham was dodgy by daylight. 

John followed in silence, walking a little faster than he had been. Still with a cane, though. “Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“Why didn’t you text me?”

“I didn’t hear the alert until the last one. Sorry that you were waiting there. Don’t you still have a key?”

“No, I gave it back to Mrs Hudson when I moved out,” John said. “That’s not what I’m asking. Before. When Lestrade first called you to come out here. Why didn’t you text me and tell me to come?”

Fought the urge to speed up and both John and this conversation behind. “I told you. It was barely a case at first.”

“But once Lestrade called – ”

“I thought you’d be at work.”

“That never used to stop you. And it never used to stop me from leaving work to join you.” The volume of John’s voice was rising. Upset. He was upset. 

They reached the corner, and thank God, a taxi was coming. Sherlock raised his hand and it stopped. John closed the door after they got in. “Baker Street,” Sherlock said. (Where else was he supposed to say? They had made no plans.) 

“Sherlock,” John said, quietly because he didn’t want the cabbie to hear that they were having an argument. (Were they having an argument? It sounded like the beginnings of one.) “I don’t know what’s going on, or what happened at lunch on Saturday, or…” He stopped. (Was he thinking of the wedding? Of right before the wedding?) John was looking out his window, away from him. “I don’t know exactly what’s happening here. But I wish you would tell me.”

Silence. (Confusion. Anger. What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t know, either?) Three or four minutes passed. Finally he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to come. That’s all.”

John looked at him. Accusing. “Really? That’s all. That’s why you’ve been ignoring my texts, barely looking at me when we talk? You’ve gone all withdrawn and I don’t know what the problem is.”

Sherlock looked back at him. Looked away. “Perhaps with your new… phase of life, it would be better for you if you didn’t come to all of the crime scenes.”

“Sherlock – ”

“Perhaps your wife would prefer that,” he added, steel edging his words. 

John went quiet. “Did she tell you that?” he asked the window. 

“Not in so many words.”

A deep sigh. (Angry.) Ten minutes went by. London went by. Sherlock saw it and took nothing in. “I knew she must have said something,” John said at last. “Everything was different went I came back. You looked like you’d turned to stone and she was just a little too happy. I don’t understand what’s come over her. She was _nice_ , really lovely. And it’s only you she’s gets like that around.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. 

“Are you going to tell me what she said?”

“Why don’t you ask her.”

“She says she didn’t say anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Then if I say that she did, what does that make me?”

“Sherlock. I want to know the truth.”

The taxi slowed. “Just up here,” Sherlock said. He paid the cabbie and got out. They were at the corner in front of the dim sum restaurant, a block away from 221B. He turned to John. He’d thought of this over the past few days. It would be painful. But perhaps necessary. He refused to keep having these conversations. “John. Listen to me.”

John went still. As though he already knew. He looked stricken. (His honest eyes.)

“I think,” Sherlock said slowly, “that your wife would prefer you not to see me. And given that, I think it might be… easier for you, in the long run. I’m sorry.” Should he add something? No. Leave now, before John could argue. He turned and began to walk, quickly, his head down. (The test.)

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

He had to ignore it, had to just keep walking. He increased his speed, almost running. Could hear John’s voice behind him, then heard John’s footsteps. Running. Heard something wooden clatter to the cobblestones. He had reached 221B. He turned around and John was right behind him, as angry as Sherlock had ever seen him. 

He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and slammed him against the bricks. Fury blazed from him like radiation, prickling into Sherlock’s skin. “Don’t you _dare_!” John shouted. Passers-by were turning and looking; it was only nine o’clock in the evening. “How can you turn your back and walk away from me like that? After – after everything we’ve gone through, everything we’ve lived through together, after having already lost you once – how _dare_ you!”

Sherlock was shaken, literally and otherwise. John Watson was a small man, but at the moment, he was Captain Watson, RAMC, and he was furious. He thought John might hit him. 

He was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, red in the face. “I lost you once,” he said. “Never again. _Never_ again. Don’t you _dare_ leave me again.” He dragged Sherlock toward him by the lapels and kissed him, there on the street, kissed him with teeth and tongue and fury. Sherlock was startled at the contact, shivered when John’s tongue touched his, pushing, demanding, teeth scraping at his bottom lip, fists balled in the dark wool of Sherlock’s coat. John’s breath in his lungs until he thought to inhale through his nose. He was kissing back, he discovered, his fingers making a ruin of the back of John’s jacket. When John came to the same conclusion, something shifted; the kiss was still an assault but John no longer seemed afraid that he was going to fight back, run from it. John’s physical proximity was magnetic; Sherlock felt dizzy. John’s lips closed fiercely around his bottom lip and sucked and a bolt of something heavy and electric shot through Sherlock’s body. He pulled away, gasping. 

John’s eyes were dark with anger, his face flushed, his jumper dishevelled, mouth wet and bruised. They stared at each other. “Upstairs,” John bit out. 

Sherlock turned, hands less than steady, fumbling with the key. He listened and John’s steps were even on the stairs behind him. He went into the flat; John closed the door behind him. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, what to say, where to stand, what to do with his hands. He’d always known that John thought he knew nothing whatsoever about these sorts of human interrelations in particular, that it was one of those apparently astounding gaps in his knowledge. And he was right. He was floundering. (Afraid.) No knowledge to make deductions from, no experience to draw upon. Blank. 

John stood against the door, as though prepared to prevent Sherlock from fleeing the scene. “We are going to talk,” he said. His face was still red. “You owe me some answers.”

“What – what do you want to know?” Sherlock cleared his throat, put his hands into the coat pockets to hide their trembling. 

“Not five minutes before my wedding, you kissed me,” John said. He stated it as though it were a crime. 

He couldn’t deny it. He _had_ kissed John. He stared back, unable to think of a suitable response to this. 

“Why, Sherlock? Why then? Why at all, ever?” 

Perhaps he could survive a jump from one of the windows. His eyes skated over them, evaluating the distance to the street below. He’d break a rib or two, maybe an ankle or wrist. “I don’t know.”

“Look at me, Sherlock.” 

He looked. His heart was in his throat. He felt exposed. 

John’s face softened a little. “Christ, you’re scared,” he said. “Have you ever – ” he gestured between the two of them – “ever had something like this before?”

Too vague. He shrugged jerkily. 

“Tell me,” John insisted, taking four (steady) steps closer. He paused, then asked in a way that made Sherlock suspect it was a question he’d been holding back for awhile. “Was that your first kiss? The day of my wedding?”

Looked away. The intensity of John’s eyes was too much, he was going to break and turn back into what he’d once been, before he’d learned how to build and use walls. Naked and defenseless. “Maybe. Yes.”

John shook his head, but there was no judgement in the wonder on his face. “I keep asking, why me? I don’t even think you know, do you.”

He couldn’t answer, but John’s eyes had his trapped. He couldn’t look away, and John’s strong hands circled his wrists. 

“Sherlock,” John said, softly. “You should have told me.”

His voice was a rasp. “I did.”

“When?”

“With – with that,” Sherlock said. (Horribly uncertain. Fear.)

“When you kissed me?” John asked. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he sighed. “Thirty seconds before my wedding ceremony. Was that your way of asking me not to get married?”

Another jerky shrug, _why_ wouldn’t his shoulders stop trembling? “No. I don’t know.”

John apparently took that as a _yes_. “I don’t know what I would have said,” he said, honest as ever. “I mean – I didn’t know that you… Maybe I did. I don’t know.”

He moved his hands to Sherlock’s upper arms, would catch him if his knees gave out, which they were in danger of doing. The heat of his hands was seeping through the coat. “She told me that you weren’t gay,” Sherlock said. “On Saturday. That she thought I should know. That you belong to her.”

Another flash of anger. John shook he head. “For the record, I never thought I was,” he said. He smiled wryly up at Sherlock. “It’s just you. It was only ever you.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. He didn’t grasp what this meant, what bearing it had on the reality of the situation. Decided he didn’t care, not right at this moment. He turned his face and put his mouth back on John’s, and John didn’t refuse it. Didn’t refuse him.


	6. Deep Waters/Something of an Understatement

**Chapter Six: Deep Waters/Something of an Understatement**

 

Perhaps five or ten minutes went by. Perhaps an hour. He had no idea, no sense of time. Nothing mattered in the world, nothing but this. He knew that this was dangerously addictive, thousands of times stronger than nicotine or cocaine, and that he was instantly addicted to it, to this sense of dizzying magnetism, this dance of mouth and hand and breath. John’s mouth would leave his sometimes, tongue and lips on Sherlock’s throat, jaw line, ear, eyes closing as he drowned in sensation, in overwhelming emotion that he could not (would not) identify or articulate. His hands were on John’s coat, the back of his neck. He felt simultaneously completely out of his depth and ignorant, yet hungry, hungry, craving nothing more than for this to last forever. Everything else ceased to have importance. 

John moaned softly, just a hard exhalation with a rasp of voice to it, vibrating through Sherlock’s mouth, his skull. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock opened his eyes, found John’s closed, lips parted, breathing hard. Aroused. He was aroused. John’s eyes opened, dark, dilated. Yes. Was he supposed to say something? He made a small sound, possibly of negation (don’t want to talk) and put his mouth on John’s again. 

John made that sound again, moved closer. (Had thought they were already close: wrong; there’d been space between them. No space now.) John was pressed along the length of Sherlock’s torso, holding Sherlock so tightly that he could feel the tightening of John’s biceps against his rib cage. He shifted again, his pelvis tilting into Sherlock’s. Like electricity. Sherlock’s breath caught in spite of himself, turning his mouth away to draw in air, nerve endings sparking and trembling. He shuddered. (Never felt this before. Urge to panic.) “Sherlock…” John murmured into his neck. “All right?” His hands (firm, gentle, steady, not panicking) stroked over Sherlock’s back. 

He heard a sound, felt the vibration of it in his throat and chest (must have been him, then). Didn’t know if it was an affirmation or a negation. 

“You’re trembling,” John said, gentle. He looked up at Sherlock, somehow managing to without separating them. “You okay?”

He didn’t know. If he was okay. What was okay when it came to this? Nothing to draw upon. (John. No reason to panic. Just John.) He inhaled again, exhaled. 

John’s eyes were observing him intently, carefully. “Should we sit down?” he suggested. “Sofa?”

He didn’t want to lose the proximity, the feeling of John against him, but he also needed to give some sort of answer. His thoughts were whirling, like frightened rodents in a panic. (Must hide panic.) He made a sound that must have been an acquiescence; John took him by the hand and led him to the sofa and sat down very close to Sherlock, still touching him, one arm around his shoulders, the other draped across his torso. Sherlock couldn’t think what he was meant to be doing with his hands, but they seemed to be holding John’s arm against him. 

“Look,” John said. “I’ve never… not with a bloke, ever. But you’re different. You always were. We could…” he said, “if you want to. Do you want this?”

Sherlock debated with himself for a moment. (Didn’t want to say it in words. So crude.) He bent forward and kissed John again, got his arms to function again and got them around John. John accepted this in lieu of an answer for the time being, kissing back with rather a lot of enthusiasm, tangling a leg around Sherlock’s. His hands moved over Sherlock’s sides and chest and back, communicating naked want, desire in every touch. (Never knew. Never knew that John wanted him like this. Warmth associated with John translating into heat, fire burning into nervous system. Want. He was one hundred percent want. Despite hesitation: want. Want John.) 

One of John’s hands went to his waist, then moved slowly down, touching him, fingers light (uncertain), nevertheless sending reverberations of a desire so intense through Sherlock’s body that he felt he’d been struck by lightning. Too intense. He wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist and didn’t know whether it was to prevent him or because he wanted the touch to be considerably stronger. “Is this… all right?” John asked again, doubt clouding his voice, lips hovering just over Sherlock’s. “You’re going to have to tell me if it’s not, otherwise…” He kissed Sherlock again. “I want you,” he whispered. “God, I want you. Please say yes.”

“Yes,” Sherlock got out, voice an octave lower than usual, a hoarse rasp he barely recognised. “John – ”

That was all it took. Apparently buoyed by his response, John changed gears, pressed his palm into the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers, fingers finding the outline of his testicles, and it was almost so much that he couldn’t think at all. Forming words: no longer possible. “Sherlock,” John whispered, “I… God, you’re beautiful, so beautiful like…”

Sherlock made an incomprehensible sound and let go of John’s wrist, left one arm around John’s shoulders, put the other hand on his thigh, put his mouth back one John’s, one thousand percent of his nerves aware of John’s hand on him. Tried not to push into it. Wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch, how it worked. He could react; could not initiate (still afraid). 

Perhaps John felt the hesitation. Without breaking the kiss, he took Sherlock’s wrist and moved it to between his legs. The feeling of that hard outline in John’s denims was strangely familiar, as though he’d always known precisely what it would feel like. (Had thought about it. But never – of course not.) He found his eyes had opened, the kiss interrupted, John looking at him. “I’ve never done this before either,” John whispered. “It’s all right. We’ll figure it out” He smiled, pressed Sherlock’s hand in affirmation of where it was, then began touching Sherlock again, warm palm (so warm, even through layers of material) moving, rubbing over him.

He still couldn’t speak, couldn’t smile back, could only stare at John, lips parted, felt the flush on his face. 

“It’s all right,” John murmured. “It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything.” He closed the distance between their mouths again, hand moving with more assurance. Reassurance. (Fire, desire twisting through him into his stomach, clenching.) John turned, moved the leg curled around Sherlock’s to the far side, straddling him, shifting closer. His hands fumbled between them at the button of Sherlock’s trousers. 

This he could do. He’d already made the decision, even if he couldn’t say it. He got the button and zip of John’s denims free before John had finished with his button, earning him a soft laugh. 

“Show off,” John said affectionately. He got Sherlock’s button then, lifted himself as Sherlock dragged both his jeans and pants down as far as he could get them. Sherlock shifted to allow John to do the same, felt the touch of cool air against skin that had never felt so exposed before, nor so desperately wanting. John leaned forward and their cocks touched. Sherlock heard himself gasp, but _wanted_ more fiercely than he’d known was possible, but it was all right; John was panting, hand wrapping around both of them. It was euphoric already, and it was only beginning. If he had known it would be like this, would he have – ? No, no thinking about this. Not now (possibly not ever). He felt his hips canting upward, pushing into John’s hand. No: their hands; somehow his hand was on John’s, fingers interlacing. John pulled his hand away, licked it, returned it, began rocking against Sherlock in earnest.

Their mouths touched, almost kissing, breath coming too hard now. Every sensation in his body was concentrated into this one (previously irrelevant) bit of jutting flesh, desire unmasked, plain to see, touch, physical evidence on display. But John wasn’t accusing, using it against him, peering into the darkness of his vulnerability: John was unmasked himself, eyes closed as their bodies moved together, fingers wound together. John leaned his face into Sherlock’s, mouth ghosting over his, then pressed his cheek into Sherlock’s cheekbone, increasing the rhythm between them. There was desperation in his breath, gusting against Sherlock’s ear, and just now Sherlock was relieved that John couldn’t see his face, because the desire dissolving his guts was rising through him, threatening to spill out. He moved his free hand from John’s back to his arse, dug his fingers in sharply, lifting from the sofa to _push_ into their hands, rapidly losing control over his ability to maintain John’s pace. His body was acting of its own volition, he _wanted, needed, had to –_ The rising desire reached his throat; he made a sound that was almost inhuman, a growling rasp pushed out on a gush of breath, and then the world condensed around his ears, blinding white light behind his eyes like lightning, and his entire body became the cock in John’s palm, sensation overflowing. He was gasping, thrusting like an animal, John’s body clenched to himself in an iron grip as his body wracked itself in pulsating waves in John’s hand. He was peripherally aware of John gasping against his ear, cursing, mouth in Sherlock’s hair, body going rigid in Sherlock’s arm, against his torso, shuddering violently. He might have been saying words; Sherlock couldn’t hear them over the thunder in his ears. Their hands were wet and he didn’t know if it was from him or John or both of them. 

John went limp, mouth pressing loosely against Sherlock’s face: his cheek where John’s had bruised it, then beside his mouth, then his mouth again. Tongues tangling, their mouths wet. John’s hand was in his hair, the other still locked in Sherlock’s on their cocks. “Wanted you for so long,” John said against his mouth, still breathing hard.

This, sitting here like this with John spent and boneless against him, felt almost unbearably even more intimate than it had a moment ago. Sherlock felt as vulnerable and exposed as he ever had in his life. “Then why did you get married?”

The question surprised them both. He hadn’t meant to ask it aloud. There was a pause. John pulled his face back just far enough that he could focus on Sherlock. “You were dead,” he said, shoulders moving in what might have been a shrug. “I was so alone. If I had known you weren’t really gone… I never would have. I think.”

He wanted to believe it. Wanted to rather more than he cared to admit. Damn Mycroft. Damn him. The question had been asked and answered now; the impossible conversation begun. Irrevocable. He could never take it back, retract the question. No choice but to go forward. “And now?” he asked. He was still wearing all of his clothes, but his softening cock was still cocooned next to John’s within their joint hands. John was above him; for once he had to look up at him. Utterly exposed. 

John sighed. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I love Mary. In a completely different way than how I feel about you.” He touched his lips to Sherlock’s. “Just a moment. Just going to get – ” He extricated his sticky hand from under Sherlock’s. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He got up and went to the kitchen, hitching up his denims with his clean hand. Sherlock heard the water running, then he was coming back with a damp flannel, denims fastened again. He gave it to Sherlock so that he could clean himself, then sat down, took it and cleaned Sherlock’s hand himself with the other side. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek and put his arms around him again as Sherlock rearranged his trousers. “Listen,” he said. “When you died, or when I thought you had died, I felt half-dead myself. I had never really let myself think about it too hard before, but after you were gone, I knew. Knew it already when I saw you there, on the roof.”

“Knew what?” Sherlock heard himself ask. He didn’t know. Needed to know. 

“That…” John put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, took Sherlock’s arms and put them around himself. “That I loved you, I guess. I suppose I knew already, but I’d never really acknowledged it and the fact of it just really hit me then, and you were gone. It was terrible. People always thought we were a couple – and you never denied it, did you? I don’t know how you felt about me then, but I never thought, until the day of my wedding, that you might have felt the same way. But then you kissed me.”

Sherlock was silent, thinking. Should he apologise? He couldn’t; it would be utterly insincere. It was probably the best thing he’d ever done. (Worst thing? Maybe.) 

John’s face moved, probably looking at him: yes, Sherlock could feel his gaze. “I had managed to move on, sort of,” he said, sighing. (His hands on Sherlock did not echo the sigh; they were still holding him with unquestionable affection.) “Getting you back, finding out you were still alive is the best thing that has ever happened to me. But I’m married, and now I don’t know what to do. I don’t think it works to love two people at once. I love Mary. She’s my wife, and I love her. But you – Christ, Sherlock. You’re different than anyone I’ve ever known. Nothing with you is like with anyone else, you’re a law unto yourself. Always have been. And I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else, in a completely separate way.”

Sherlock was facing forward, arms around John, who was curled against his side. He did not know what to say. This was too much to process, still too unfamiliar. 

John sighed again. “Well – anyway,” he said, “at any rate, I’m – I can’t not be happy about this. I hope you know that, Sherlock.” His lips touched Sherlock’s cheek again. “I didn’t know if you actually wanted this, but I guess you did. I’m glad. Really glad.”

Sherlock turned his head, looked at John for a long time. Felt his eyes closing as their mouths came together again. Curled his long fingers around the back of John’s neck, holding him close. 

“I’m not capable of making any decisions right now,” John said afterward, eyes still closed. “Right now all that matters is that you’re not dead, and that you _do_ care, about me. Like this, I mean.”

“I do.” The words came out without him meaning to say them. (Pause, consider. Confirm.) “I do care.”

“I know,” John said softly, and kissed him again.

***

Sherlock woke to sunlight slanting across his room. Calculate by angle. Past eleven. He turned onto his back. Slight ache in the backs of his thighs. Memory returned. John. 

Rush of tangled emotion. Sigh, push it back. He was in deep waters now, he knew that. He refused to let it take control of him. Push it back and contain it. The only way. John had left sometime after midnight, reluctantly saying it would be too complicated trying to explain if he stayed at Baker Street all night. He’d kissed Sherlock, told him he’d see him soon. No obvious signs of regret or self-recrimination, yet Sherlock couldn’t trust that it would remain that way. 

He pulled himself out of bed and reached for his mobile. Texts from John. Six of them. 

_Hope you slept well._

_I didn’t sleep much. Too many thoughts going through my head._

_Mary thinks I’m getting sick. I didn’t correct her._

_Three patients in a row with sinus infections. I will get sick at this rate!_

_Wish I could see you later but I have to go to some sort of reception._

_Can’t stop thinking about you._

Reception. With Mary, John hadn’t said. Flare of jealousy, surprising in its strength. He’d never really felt jealousy before, not like this. As a child, with Mycroft sometimes, but those days were long past, and bore no comparison to this whatsoever. Surely he’d felt jealousy at the wedding. (Hadn’t called it that, but hadn’t he felt it? Surely. Yes.) But this was different. After last night, he couldn’t not feel it, couldn’t not be aware of it. Would John continue to sleep with Mary, now? Would they adopt some sort of joint custody arrangement, with John spending Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at Baker Street and the rest at Queen’s Gate Gardens? He did not relish the idea of sharing. The very thought gave him a feeling not unlike gastric reflux. He considered, then typed. 

_Everything is boring without you here._

A response thirty seconds later. 

_I’m surprised you’ve made it out of your bedroom to discover that already._

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in half-smile. _Haven’t yet. Just know it will be._

_What are you going to do today? Look for a case?_ He must have been between patients. Sherlock imagined him sitting at his desk, checking his phone for responses, waiting for Sherlock to wake up. 

_No calls so far. Perhaps find another skull at Bart’s. I’m studying dental fractures._

_That would make five? Is there room on the mantle for another one?_ Sherlock could hear John’s amusement. 

_Always room for another skull!_

_Mrs Hudson will be thrilled._

_I know._

Sherlock yawned and stretched. Stood up and padded barefoot to get the newspaper and plug in the kettle. If John were here, he’d have made tea. (Imagined him making tea for Mary. Unpleasant thought.)

As he was reading the paper, his phone pinged. Not John. Mycroft. _Image downloading._ (Image?) Sherlock picked up the phone and looked at it. A CCTV close-up still of John entering the clinic, looking over his other shoulder, a clear red mark showing under the collar of his shirt. Ping. Another text. 

_Am I to understand that congratulations are in order? You didn’t waste any time, did you? Or was it simply a matter of picking up where things left off?_

He pressed his lips together and typed. _Perhaps you’re not aware, but John is married, in fact. Go ask his wife if you’re hankering for details._

Pause, then another _image downloading_. Photo of John leaving 221B, time-stamped 12:23am, fingers touching the same spot on his neck, smiling. Sherlock smiled at the photo. Sent a succinct response. _Sod off, Mycroft._

He could hear Mycroft’s silent laughter from across London. He ate a piece of toast and ignored the phone when it rang. It rang again twenty minutes later after he’d showered, and he saw that Mycroft had called twice during the shower, too. As he was looking at the call log, it rang again. There was no avoiding it. If he didn’t answer, Mycroft would just come over. He swiped his thumb across the screen. “What.”

“You should answer your phone when it rings,” Mycroft said in great annoyance. 

“I was in the shower.”

“I called immediately after your text response. You didn’t send that from the shower.”

Sherlock ignored this. “What do you want?”

“Where is the ring, Sherlock?”

“We have already had this conversation.”

“I no longer trust your response, given the events of last night.”

Anger boiled. “What does it matter? Why concern is it of yours?”

“John Watson is your partner – professionally, and otherwise, evidently. His life is therefore my concern. His security is my concern. If he was robbed at his own wedding, have you considered that it may be part of a larger scheme? Of course you have, you’ll have thought of that,” Mycroft said. “Try not to be infantile about this if you possibly can. Where is the ring, Sherlock?”

Sherlock let several beats pass, swallowing back potential retorts. “Has it occurred to you,” he said, with considerable control, “that I have a theory and that I don’t believe it concerns you?”

“You don’t have theories,” Mycroft said at once. “You know things, and you verify things which you know to be true but have not yet proven.”

“Which I believe is known as a theory.”

“It concerns me. I make it my concern. Where is the ring?”

“We are not having this conversation,” Sherlock said, and hung up. 

Mycroft knew better than to call back, at least. 

***

_It should be illegal to have a neck like yours._

Sherlock frowned at his phone. What was that supposed to mean? He turned back to the microscope and looked at the hairline cracks along the base of the tooth again, sharpened the focus. The microscope’s focus was fine. It was his own that wasn’t working. Distracted. Clarification needed.

_What’s wrong with my neck?_

Immediate response. (Burst of warmth.) _Too beautiful. It’s distracting me at work._

Oh. Sherlock smiled. Texted back. _You’re distracting me at work, too._

_Sorry._

Oh. Error. Rectify. _In a good way. As far as distractions go._

Immediate forgiveness. _Then I’m not sorry. Busy later?_

Consider. (Of course not.) _No. Dinner?_

_Yes. I’ll text you when I’m off._

Smile. Good. (No Mary. He’d won this round.) He wouldn’t ask what she was busy with. (Could find out on his own if he really wanted. Obviously.) He turned back to the microscope. He hadn’t lied; thinking about John _was_ distracting and he wanted to focus. It wasn’t pressing, but it was part of his work, something he needed to know about. 

“Feeling happier?” Molly’s voice startled him. 

Sherlock made a non-committal noise, didn’t look up. The tiny fractures: caused by an impact of some sort? Erroneous mastication patterns? Potential cause: improper treatment (or lack of treatment) of misaligned teeth? No. Reconsider. Fractures only on the outside of the molars, never on the inside: external impact, every other molar. Ah. He understood: impact indeed. The spacing fit. A human fist. The victim had been punched in the face, in the jaw. 

“I haven’t seen you smile so much in awhile, that’s all,” Molly added, semi-apologetically. “Whoever’s texting you must be making you happy.”

Molly. He’d already forgotten she was there. He _hmm_ -ed. “Pass me the other skull. If you would.” (John would approve of the nicety.) 

She brought it, handed it to him. Based on her look she was trying to engage him, hoping he would talk. “So… things are going all right, then?” she prodded. 

Sherlock gave her a perfunctory smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

She lingered a moment, then gave a small sigh. “It’s no problem,” she said. “Like some coffee? I’m going upstairs for a moment.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Sherlock gave her a real smile this time, a silent apology. He knew she meant well. Had tried to stop taking her for granted. Without her, he wouldn’t be alive and he knew it. But he didn’t want to Talk About His Feelings, which was what she was angling for. 

She recognised the smile for what it was and returned it. “Black, two sugars. I remember.”

She left, and he was left in peace (albeit temporary) with the other mandible. 

***

For the first time in their joint history, John didn’t complain when Angelo brought a candle to the table. Sherlock hid a smile. Or thought he had, but John caught it and smiled back. 

“I guess there’s no point trying to claim I’m not your date any more,” he said ruefully, but he put two fingers lightly over Sherlock’s wrist. 

Even the light touch burned into his skin. He looked at it, wished he’d thought to wait for John outside the restaurant. Wanted to kiss him again. This one touch felt so inadequate, compared to… then again, he didn’t know what he thought of John suddenly acting like a date, either. “Perhaps not,” he said neutrally. 

John looked at their hands and must have felt Sherlock’s (reluctance? Hestitation?) and took his fingers away, picked up the menu instead. (Was he hurt?) “We’ve got a different table,” he observed. 

He should do something. Make up for the rebuff John seemed to have felt. (Should have done something to reciprocate the small gesture?) He picked up his own menu with his left hand and put his right on John’s knee under the table. “I asked for a more private table,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not here to watch for a serial killer.”

John looked at him over the menu, then smiled. (Happy. He’d done the right thing. John was happy.) “What are you here for, then?”

Flirting? Yes. (Who knew John could be so flirtatious?) (Don’t think of the people who would know the answer to that question.) (He could play that game, too. Had acted it. No reason he couldn’t do it for real if he chose to.) He leaned forward, chin down, eyes on John’s face. “You.”

John breathed deeply, put his hand over Sherlock’s on his knee. “Jesus,” he said weakly. “I thought your eyes could be intense _before_ …”

Sherlock was secretly pleased. (Who had known it could be so easy, eliciting these delightful reactions from John?) “What are you going to order?” His fingers moved lightly back and forth on John’s (warm) knee under John’s (warm) hand. 

“Erm… I can’t even think about food with you doing that.” John swallowed. 

He smirked and withdrew his hand. “Then I suppose I should stop distracting you.”

John cleared his throat. “Not strictly necessary,” he remarked, too obviously trying to sound normal (but his pupils were dilated). “Easier to think, though. Perhaps the gnocchi.”

“I don’t know why you bother with the menu at all. You always have the gnocchi.”

John set the menu down and reached for the wine bottle, which Angelo had already uncorked and set in an ice bucket. “Is that why you bought a white?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock smiled and took the bottle from him, filled both glasses. 

“Cheers.” Angelo bustled over then and took their order. When he left, John glanced around, as though checking for potential eavesdroppers. “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock deposited the bottle and took a sip of wine. John rarely prefaced his questions; it was going to be something personal. Obviously. “Yes,” he said warily. 

John leaned over the table, fingers cradling the base of his wineglass. “I used to think about this a lot, and then after awhile, it just stopped mattering, but… well, until…”

He waited. “Until what?”

“Until Irene Adler,” John said, almost reluctantly. “I had just figured – assumed, I guess – that you just… didn’t, with anyone. I didn’t know why, if you’d just had a bad break-up or were always just too busy, or if it was something more…” he trailed off again. 

Sherlock watched him. Waited. “Something more what?” He didn’t mean for the words to clip that way, but they did regardless. Unpleasant subject, but he could understand John’s interest, particularly given that one could now arguably state a case for it being relevant to John. 

The reluctance grew. “I wondered if, maybe, you’d had a bad experience when you were younger. At school or something. Kids can be so brutal, especially boys. I wondered if you’d been… well, Mycroft always made it sound like you didn’t have a lot of…”

“Friends?” (Was he going to have to fill in all of the gaps left by John’s niceness, his unwillingness to make Sherlock uncomfortable? Possibly.) 

“Friends, and… you know. More than friends,” John said. He sounded embarrassed. (Why was he embarrassed? This wasn’t John’s awkward youth they were discussing. Oh. Comprehension: John was embarrassed for him. Worried that he was embarrassing Sherlock by bringing it up. Considerate.) The realisation made him feeling slightly less unwilling to discuss it. 

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said. “You’ve seen how most people react to me. It used to be worse. Far worse.”

“People like you when you don’t make them feel stupid,” John said, perhaps a bit tactlessly. (Was that irony? Maybe.)

“Perhaps I was tired of people making me feel stupid.” His voice was barely audible, even to his own ears. The admission made him feel small. Like that lonely outcast he’d once been. 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “ _You_?” he said incredulously. “Stupid? You must be taking the piss. Who would ever claim that you, of all people, could be stupid?”

“You yourself have said that there are astounding gaps in my knowledge,” Sherlock said, looking at John’s hands rather than his face. “It’s not as though I’m unaware. I just choose to spend my time in areas where I excel.”

John nodded, his face kind, eyes understanding. “I see,” he said. “But you never, in all your youth or adulthood, ever had any sort of relationship, with anyone? Any sort of physical experience?”

He’d once thought he could never admit it to anyone. (Mycroft knew, damn him, and after the whole incident in Belgravia he’d assumed John knew, too, had accepted it as truth.) John’s eyes were making it both harder and easier. But John had already seen him, exposed and vulnerable and naked, and had not rejected him. Had not judged him for his lack of experience, lack of deductions about this most base sort of information. Had not ridiculed him for not having the answers at hand. John: trustworthy. If he knew one improvable thing beyond doubt, beyond logical explanation, it was that John would not betray him or ridicule him. (Solar system aside. John had never said anything like that again, after that one time.) “No,” he said. The word alone was a world of admission. “Never.” 

“And you never wanted to? With anyone?” John was infinitely gentle. No judgement. 

Hesitation. (How to explain?) “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” he said slowly, “but wanting something and… knowing how to act on it are two different things. And the thought of the reality was usually enough to remind me why I didn’t… do that.”

John was listening, absorbing, trying to understand. “The reality being – relationships? Expectations and all that?”

“Partially, yes. Complication. Emotional compromise.”

“And you had the work,” John said. Offering him an out. (Kind.)

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “There was always the work.”

The food arrived. John refilled their glasses (Sherlock hadn’t noticed that he’d drained his already) and started on his gnocchi. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is Irene Adler.”

Sherlock focused on securing his forkful of linguine. “What about her?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t sleep with her. I even left the flat so that you could. Which,” John added, taking another sip of wine, “was rather generous of me, I thought. You had hours. Why didn’t you? She obviously wanted to.”

“She did,” Sherlock agreed. He’d known that John was jealous at the time (and then, he hadn’t been able to understand, precisely, but assumed vaguely that it had to do with the woman not being interested in him.) “She definitely wanted to.”

“But?” John was studying him a little too intensely. Sherlock suddenly understood that this was more important to him than simple curiosity. John cared about this. A lot. 

“John,” he said slowly. “The first time we ate here, you asked me if I had a girlfriend. I told you it wasn’t really my area. You then asked me if I had a boyfriend. What did I say?”

“You said no, then told me you considered yourself married to your work. I remember. And you thought I was asking you out.” John looked no less assured. “Was that your way of telling me you were gay?”

“I believe that was my way of telling you I didn’t date.”

“But you never said that boyfriends weren’t your area,” John said. “I see. I think.”

“They aren’t either, for the record. Relationships. Not my area. Irene Adler was interesting, I admit. She… was intriguing partially for the simple fact that I didn’t understand her until the end. Normally I can understand people, if I try. She was a puzzle.”

John understood then. “Ah. So you were interested in the puzzle, but not the person?”

“Certainly not in the terms you’re imagining. But it’s true that I had never encountered someone so difficult to unravel. She was complex. Still is, I imagine.”

John nodded, slowly. “Mycroft told me, after you… after St. Bart’s, that you had been in Karachi after all. I don’t know how he found out, he wouldn’t tell me. I suppose I wondered if you’d gone to find her, in the years in between.”

Sherlock realised that John was still asking. “I didn’t,” he said. “No interest.” He held John’s eye for a long moment, gauging his reaction. 

John seemed to weigh it, evaluating, and then his shoulders released and he smiled, started eating again. “Good,” he said. 

Just like that, the potential crisis was over. Sherlock watched him a moment longer before resuming his own meal. Just to be sure. (Uncharted waters, this.)

***

As they were leaving Angelo’s, John’s phone pinged. He pulled it out, read, and frowned. “Damn it.”

“What?” Sherlock turned his collar up (he knew John liked it; he had finally deduced that John only complained about things he secretly liked). 

“Mary,” John said, still frowning. “She said she was going to the cinema with some friend tonight. They must have gone to the early showing. She wants me to come home and paint the kitchen ceiling. I’d say I would try to do it this week. She also wants to know where I am. I didn’t tell her I was going out.”

“Did she leave you another meatloaf?” Sherlock asked, his voice dry. (Disappointment. Loath as he was to admit it to himself, much less John, he’d been more than a little curious to see what the after-dinner portion of the evening might hold in store.)

John shrugged in obvious frustration. “I don’t know. I could put her off for a bit, but I don’t want to lie outright.”

Sherlock didn’t ask what John had or had not said about the other night, where he’d been. Some things were best left unknown, in the end. “Going home, then?” His voice had that same, flat tone to it. 

John looked at him, his face mirroring the same disappointment. “I don’t want to…”

“But,” Sherlock prompted, merciless. 

John looked at his phone again. Typed something. He looked around, then took Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s walk a bit,” he said. 

Sherlock looked down at their joint hands but didn’t say anything. Didn’t pull his hand away.

John set a brisk pace (Sherlock had not yet mentioned his lost and apparently forgotten cane) and turned down a side street. Not on the way to Baker Street. Another turn, a smaller street. Sherlock decided not to ask where they were going. Another alley, even narrower. Darker, now that the sun had mostly set. “Here,” John said at last. “This should about do.”

Sherlock looked around. “Do for wh – ” his question was cut off by John’s mouth, taken unawares. He stopped trying to speak immediately and immersed himself in the kiss. This, at least, had become familiar territory. And John, who could be so perfunctory (so military) about many things, was surprisingly un-perfunctory when it came to kissing. (Very pleasant surprise.) Based on his everyday demeanour, one could get the impression that John Watson was not a romantic. But this – this was passion. John had backed him into the wall, hands on Sherlock’s shirt beneath the coat, stroking his sides and hips, mouth firm and taking no quarter on Sherlock’s. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to do with his hands, but they seemed to have inherent ideas of their own; his arms seemed to have wound around John’s back and shoulders. 

John broke off, his breath heavy on Sherlock’s lips. “I spent all of dinner wishing there’d been a chance to do that before,” he said. “It’s all I’ve thought about in the last two days.”

Sherlock smiled. “Is it?” He let a curl of suggestion snake through his tone. 

John caught it at once. “Well, almost all,” he amended. His lips and tongue met Sherlock’s again, harder this time. Sherlock felt a direct connection between their tongues and his cock, desire spreading in a flush from his neck down his torso to pool beneath his hipbones, which John’s hands were stroking, thighs touching Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry,” John breathed against his jaw, kissing it. “I’ll make it up to you soon. I promise. For now, this will have to do, if you’ll let me…” 

“Let you what?” His voice, rough with want already. 

John’s fingers slipped his trouser button open (already faster than he’d been), unzipped and pushed the material aside. Slipped his hand into Sherlock’s pants, kissed him on the lips and said, “This.” He got to his knees, looked up at Sherlock as though confirming. 

Sherlock’s mind had gone blank; he could only stare down at John as though struck mute. His mouth opened but nothing came out. 

John got it and grinned. “Bear in mind, I’ve never exactly tried this before,” he said, fingers nonetheless deftly getting the pants out of the way, cool summer evening air whispering over Sherlock’s flesh before John’s mouth touched it. And that – words, concepts of words could not begin to describe it, the sensation filling his body, his mouth. He felt the back of his head make contact with the brick wall behind him, fingers scrabbling uselessly against it. He’d already been half hard and with the first touch of John’s mouth he became instantly as hard as he’d ever been. His mouth was open, gasping as John’s hands moved in time with his mouth, slowly, firmly over his cock, his tongue cupping it from below. Bugger the work; he’d never think clearly again. He was going to come in an embarrassingly short time at this rate. He couldn’t get any purchase on the wall, was desperately fighting the urge to hold John’s head and ram his cock as far down his throat as he could get it. His legs were shaking. Absolute loss of control was looming. He must have made some sort of sound that conveyed _more more more_ because John suddenly increased his pace, perhaps becoming accustomed to it. The fingers of John’s right hand were clenched on Sherlock’s left arse cheek, the left moving between his testicles and his cock. John made a sound of his own, then, a moan that resounded through Sherlock’s core, spilled out of his own mouth. His hand was on John’s head, not pushing, not forcing, but stroking, perhaps a little too hard. John’s lips tightened, tongue massaging hard around the head and suddenly the precipice was right there. 

“John – ” Edge of desperation and warning all in one, but John got it, left his mouth where it was, tongue cradling his cock as his hand moved rapidly. Sherlock opened his eyes (when had he closed them?), saw that John’s were closed, that he’d moved his right hand to between his legs, and the thought that John was doing that, was aroused by it, was finally more stimulation than he could take. He closed his eyes, felt it rising unstoppably through his body, fingers clenching in John’s short hair, scrape of teeth as his cock thrust itself into John’s throat beyond his control, and with John’s nose buried in his skin, came violently. He could feel rather than hear the sound tear from his own throat, heard it echoing around the narrow alley as the orgasm shuddered through him.

John made a muffled sound around his cock, exacerbating the last ebbs of his climax, pulled his mouth off but kept his hand on it as he stood, reaching for Sherlock’s hand with his free one. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock gasped, the stars going off behind his eyes leaving him half-blind. “John – I – ”

“Do _not_ apologise for that,” John rasped, mouth attacking Sherlock’s. (He could taste himself: interesting.) Together they moved Sherlock’s hand to John’s cock and he half moved it, half held it in place to meet John’s short thrusts, five, six times and then John was saying his name, eyes clenched shut, hot bursts of fluid all over Sherlock’s hand and wrist. 

Sherlock pulled him close by the back of his neck and kissed him thoroughly. He was a little too tall, but their cocks were still touching, slowly softening, in a sort of perverse kiss of their own, their knuckles bumping together there as they kissed. 

After, John moved his mouth to Sherlock’s throat. “That was an apology, about tonight,” he said into Sherlock’s neck. “Next time will be better.”

Sherlock laid his cheek against the top of John’s head. “I’m not complaining,” he said. Which was something of an understatement, but he didn’t quite trust himself to speak at the moment. (Mental reminders concerning oxytocin and dopamine; not a good time to trust one’s ability to be rational.) He didn’t say Mary’s name, not even to himself. Perhaps if he just closed his eyes, this moment could last forever.


	7. Sheherazade/The Deerstalker in the Brook

**Chapter Seven: Sheherazade/The Deerstalker in the Brook**

 

Compromise. Sentiment. So tedious. How well he’d known to avoid them, how intelligent he’d been, once. The problem was, one couldn’t allow for exceptions, because emotion didn’t occur in singularities. Open the door to one and welcome the apocalypse, a cascade of uncontrollable feeling, getting in the way, interfering with concentration, with work. It was all terribly annoying. Predictable. Dull. He’d turned into a moping adolescent girl. 

Sherlock stared at the ceiling and wallowed in self-recrimination. Two days had passed since dinner at Angelo’s and already he was feeling neglected, alone, lonely. He’d never minded being alone, at least not as an adult. Never noticed feeling lonely. Or any of the other things he was feeling: abandoned, jealous, melancholy, obsessive, needy, desperate. And hopelessly sentimental. His moods rocketed with every contact from John, every text, only to plunge dangerously the moment some part of his brain decided it had been too long since the last. An addiction. 

His phone pinged. His heart raced obnoxiously as he fished the phone out of his dressing gown pocket too quickly, then thudded like a stone in his chest when he saw that it wasn’t John. Worse still, it was Mycroft. 

_What are you doing?_

It was never an idle question with Mycroft. Never had been. Ignore. Three minutes. Another ping. 

_Something useful, I hope. Tell me you’re not lying around, counting down the minutes until the surgery closes. I’d hate to see you wasting your time and talents._

That didn’t require a response. Sherlock dragged himself to his feet and went to the violin. He contemplated for a few moments, then began to play the first solo from Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Scheherazade_. It was terribly romantic, but John would like it. John liked the Baroque and classical composers well enough (possibly excepting Beethoven, to whom he seemed indifferent), but always responded more strongly to almost anything from the romantic era. It was Sherlock who liked Bach, though the music lacked the same dramatic scope of the romantics. He played through the other solos, hearing the orchestra in his mind, playing it for John despite John’s absence. He imagined John was listening to it, could somehow feel it while he was doing whatever he was doing at the clinic. (Jealous. He was jealous of a clinic, for God’s sake.)

The last solo finished. His eyes opened. The time had gone by far more quickly than he had thought. He thought again. The Brahms concerto? No. Perhaps more Russian. Tchaikovsky. The concerto in D. Yes. He raised the bow, let the kinaesthetic memory reassert itself in his left fingers, inhaled. _Ping_. His eyes opened. For half a moment he was filled with hatred toward whomever had invented the telephone; his next thought was _John_. He put the violin down and rummaged in his pocket for it. Not John. Lestrade. 

_Got a murder out in Barnet, bit of a funny case. I called you but you didn’t pick up. Are you busy?_

He hadn’t heard it. He put the bow down and typed. _Where?_

He dressed, got a taxi and texted John with the address, adding _Can you come?_ The cab sped through the streets and Sherlock held the phone in his hands. This was torture, waiting for a simple text message like this. He should be clearing his head. He made a concerted effort to stop but it was impossible until he knew whether John was coming or not. _Ping_. Finally. Thank God. 

_I’ve got two patients I really have to see, but after that I could get away. That be all right?_

The smile wouldn’t be stopped; he directed it out the window. _Yes._

***

He could feel the revolving lights from the police cars at the edge of the park on his face, listening to Lestrade’s brief run-down. 

“We found her just where she is, but there’s not been much bloating from the water, only a little. It’s possible she drowned but the corpse isn’t swollen.”

“People can drown with only their faces in the water,” Sherlock said, already walking away from him, attention directed at the body. 

Lestrade followed, still talking. “The only strange thing is her clothing, really. That’s the reason I called you. Otherwise it looks like a fairly straightforward homicide, but then we never know, do we?”

 _You_ don’t, Sherlock thought, but decided against saying it aloud. Instead, he said, “What about her clothes?”

Lestrade nodded at the body lying in the reeds. “Go on. You’ll see.”

Sherlook frowned, could feel the bridge of his nose creasing. The edge of the brook was layered in thick reeds. The woman lay face first in the mud, surrounded in reeds. She wore a blue dress of wool crêpe, fitted tightly at the hips and waist, with a short-sleeved bolero jacket. The heels: Louboutin, four inch stilettos, red soles. He felt a chill. It couldn’t be. The hair was dressed elegantly, dyed dark. (Probably dark originally, but the intensity of the colour and manufactured gloss suggested it had been chemically augmented.) “Turn her over.”

The medical team exchanged looks and little noises of dissatisfaction, but (looking toward Lestrade as a unit), they stopped grumbling and did it. The face was different. It wasn’t her. There were diamond earrings (actually, revise, probably fakes) in the lobes. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like her, though the features were not even similar. He stooped and took a closer look. Multiple thoughts were occurring at once: there were two small splatters of dark liquid just behind the right ear, a rough red mark at the nape of the neck where the zip fastened. Bare legs, but there were marks above the ankles, ringed and reddish. The Louboutins were unscuffed and never walked in, never worn before now. 

“My God.” Shock. He’d almost forgotten about John. (Correction: he _had_ , but only temporarily.) Hadn’t even heard him approaching. Rush of unwelcome gladness, of warmth. “It’s her,” John said. “The woman. Or sort of.”

Sherlock straightened up and stepped back. “Yes,” he agreed, voice guarded. (Now that he knew that John had strong feelings on the subject, best to be cautious.) (Hated this tiptoeing.) “Sort of. Someone certainly went to a lot of trouble to dress her that way.”

“Why?” John sounded both confused and perturbed. “Why would someone go to all that trouble?”

Sherlock didn’t give a response, still thinking. 

“What have you got so far?” Lestrade wanted to know. 

“She was redressed after death,” Sherlock said. “She wasn’t wearing this before, and she didn’t drown. She didn’t die here.”

“What makes you say that?” Lestrade sounded exasperated already. Anderson had probably already listed cause of death in his preliminary report. John ignored this and crouched down next to the body, smelling, prodding gently. (Always so courteous.)

Sherlock pointed. “Look, Inspector. Really look. Rings on her ankles, she was wearing socks. The shoes are brand new, never worn. If you look on her back, there’s a mark where the zipper caught the skin, an indentation that never subsided because it was made post-mortem. Her hair was dyed; there are speckles of hair dye behind her right ear. Do I need to go on? She is wearing replicas of the diamond earrings and ring that Irene Adler wore, though I doubt they’re real diamonds, probably cubic zirconium. Her mouth is dry on the inside and there are no signs of internal bloating, only external. The body was brought here and has begun an accelerated decay owing to the water.”

Lestrade was frowning but nodding. “All right,” he said. “But who would kill a woman and try to make it look like Irene Adler? I admit I can see a general resemblance, but if you don’t take the hair style and clothes into account, it doesn’t really look like her. I mean, I’ve never met the woman, just seen her in the papers and that, but I reckoned you’d know.”

“Someone is clearly trying to make some sort of point,” Sherlock said, looking toward John, then the stream. “What is the name of that stream? Does it have a name?” It was barely a meter wide; to call it a stream was generous. More of a brook, really. 

Lestrade confirmed, checking the map on his phone. “Burnt Oak Brook,” he said. “And we’re in Watling Park, if that means anything to you.”

Sherlock only heard the first part. Something about the words made him feel vaguely uneasy. (Also: aware that he was too aware of John’s presence, heart beating a little faster than it should.) “Burnt Oak Brook,” he repeated, hardly aware that he was doing so. 

“Sherlock?” John was watching him quizzically. “You all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said 

John gave him a secret sort of smile, full of warmth and Johnness and said, “You’re right, she didn’t drown. She did asphyxiate, but not in water. I found a bit of down in her hair, goose down.”

Sherlock understood at once. “A pillow.”

“I’d say she’s been dead about twenty-four hours and that the body was indeed redressed and then moved here,” John wound up. He turned to Lestrade. “Any other evidence around that I missed before I got here?”

“Just a moment,” Lestrade said, punching at his phone. “Yes, what?” he said into it. Then, with a look at Sherlock, “Where?”

He could feel John looking at him. “What is it?” he asked as Lestrade hung up. Somehow something felt off. 

“Anderson’s team just found a deerstalker down the stream,” Lestrade said, lines forming between his eyebrows. “About twenty meters. That’s interesting, isn’t it.”

Sherlock felt the bridge of his nose crease. “Why is that interesting? It hardly seems relevant.”

“It’s interesting because everyone knows that you wear a deerstalker, freak,” Donovan said from behind him. 

Sherlock exhaled deeply. (Hate. He hated her. He never used to admit it to himself so plainly, but it was true. He hated her. Actively wished her ill.) He heard John’s voice, sharp, defensive. (Better. Slightly better. John.)

“…doesn’t even _own_ a deerstalker,” John was saying angrily. 

“Yes, he does,” Donovan said. (Without looking at her, Sherlock could see her facial expression.) “We _gave_ him one, and he’s been photographed in them dozens of times.”

“He was photographed in _one_ hat that didn’t belong to him, which was circulated everywhere, and then you gave him one that he hated and never wore, which I gave to a charity, so you can just stop implying whatever it is that you’re implying.” 

John’s cheeks were flushed with anger, he saw when he opened his eyes. (Always rushing to his defense. Warmth.) He put a hand on John’s arm, gently. “What it means is that someone is setting this up to either make it look like I was involved or to get my attention,” he said, cutting off Donovan’s rebuttal. “They dressed the woman to look like the only women they know me to have known at all, besides Mrs Hudson, and they’ve placed one of those hats at the staged crime scene. I want to know why. Detective, you need to find the actual crime scene. Start with her house.”

Lestrade rose his eyebrows. “Do you think we could possibly start with the autopsy and perhaps her identity? That might help us find her address, maybe?”

Sherlock waved him off in annoyance. “Whatever. Do what you need to do. I need to think. Call me later when you know more. Come on, John.” Without thinking, he took John by the wrist and began to walk away. Heard Lestrade say something that made Donovan guffaw and then laugh meanly, that laugh that fourteen-year-old girls laughed. Oh. The wrist. That was why. He let go abruptly and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking faster. 

John caught up. “Hey,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t worry about it. They already think all that, anyway.” (First time he hadn’t protested everyone thinking that? A red letter day.)

“I’m not particularly concerned about that,” Sherlock bit, though it wasn’t one hundred percent true, strictly speaking. “As you point out, they already suspect.”

“They always did, from the beginning,” John said, looking sideways at him. “Long before we figured it out.”

Sherlock looked around for a cab, saw one and raised his arm. “True,” he said, watching the taxi circle back for them. He opened the door and slid to the far side, as usual. 

John climbed in and slid over, put his hand on Sherlock’s knee as he closed the door. “Hi,” he said, warm with affection. 

Sherlock looked down at him. Felt some of the tension in his gut dissipate. “Hello.” It was John. John who always made him feel that things were just a little less bad. John, who brought normalcy and everydayness to his bizarre, twisted, dark life. Normalcy and silly jumpers and endless cups of tea. John, who was here in a cab with him instead of at the surgery where he was supposed to be at this hour. He raised his voice for the driver’s benefit. “221B Baker Street, please.”

John smiled at him and moved closer, and somehow Sherlock’s arm ended up around his shoulders. “I’m not interrupting your thinking, am I?” (Flirting again, John? Really.) “You did say you needed to think.”

It was true, and he did, but… He looked at John, whose face was full of affection and not far below that, hope. “Thinking can wait.”

Shock. “It can?”

“Well, a bit,” Sherlock amended. They had to wait for Lestrade to catch up before the investigation could any further, anyway. Though from John’s expression at present, he deemed it best to leave that particular thought unspoken.

***

John was asleep at the end of the sofa. He’d opened the surgery that morning, and what with painting the kitchen ceiling three nights running, he was tired. John always had liked sleeping. Placed a strange value on the importance of eating and sleeping at regular intervals. Perhaps it had to do with his military training. He had always tended to get upset about changes and interruptions to this hallowed sleeping-and-eating thing. Yet he craved the disruption, too. Sherlock knew better than to believe John’s protestations, which was why he generally ignored them. 

After the taxi, John had waited for Sherlock to unlock the door of 221B, followed him up the stairs and closed the door of the flat behind him. With an unmistakeable look of what he must have considered sly intent (always so obvious, it was adorable, really), he’d reached out a hand to stop Sherlock from taking off his coat. “Leave it on,” he said. 

He’d paused, not understanding. “Why?”

John had come closer, predatory (made him shiver, despite the obviousness) and taken him by lapels again. “I like you in it,” he’d said, voice full of whatever it was that had Sherlock so thoroughly addicted.

Somehow he’d been the one to back John back into the door this time, eyes locked on John’s. “Do you?” he said softly, voice scraping in his throat, looming over him from his thirteen-centimetre height advantage. Without touching him, he had John pinned to the door with his eyes as he turned up the coat collar. “You like it when I turn up my coat collar and look mysterious. I knew it.”

John had made an unintelligible sound then, mouth opening, no words coming out. (this _was_ rather fun, wasn’t it?) His hands were still on Sherlock’s lapels, his Adam’s apple bobbed, swallowing. Sherlock got his hands into John’s (unzipped) jacket, under his shirt, mouth hovering just over John’s. John’s chin was tilted up, head bending forward, mouth searching, waiting, wanting. “Sher – ”

Sherlock had kissed him then, silently acknowledging to himself that he was enjoying doing this. (Liked making John make those sounds. Delicious. Addictive.) Not content to just stand there and be acted upon, John’s hands were under his coat now, on his arse, pulling him closer. After that, it all went fairly quickly, no more words, no more teasing. John was inside his coat, hands moving with a certain desperation that Sherlock couldn’t deny having mirrored, just getting hands on each other seemed the most important thing in the world just then, John bringing their cocks together in their hands (he hadn’t even known he was so aroused already) and then just movement, sounds, a crescendo of sensation, and then the climax, John giving a shout that cut itself off as his eyes squeezed shut, heading banging on the door even as Sherlock’s mouth redescended on his ( _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop_ ) and then his own climax was upon him and he was possibly making rather a lot of noise. Mrs Hudson must have been out; there hadn’t been a knock or a plaintive call up the stairs. 

He smiled now, thinking about it. Recovering, John had staggered over to the sofa and collapsed, those small, warm things that John liked to say to him bubbling up and over his well-kissed mouth: John things, so complimentary and warm and full of that dangerously addicting affection. Things he would remember while tormenting himself with the thought that John was asleep in Mary’s bedroom while he slept alone at Baker Street. Enough. Focus. He sat at the desk, closer to the door so that he could keep an eye on John sleeping. A good person would probably wake him after a bit to see if he needed to go home. A better man than him. (Where John chose to spend his time was his own decision.) 

He typed _oak, symbolic meanings_ into his search bar and rapidly scanned through the results. Celtic power. Celtic: Irish. Burnt Oak Brook. If the crime scene had been staged to get his attention, which seemed likely, then every detail mattered, was a connection to something. Irene Adler reference, deerstalker, why the choice of location? The brook itself was so small as to be meaningless in and of itself, so surely it was the name that was of importance. He understood _burnt_ and he certainly understood _brook_ , and now _oak_ confirmed it: a reference to Moriarty. Why? Moriarty was dead, long dead. Was this Moran, finally? 

He did rather want Moran to come to light. He wondered if Mycroft had got wind of this, had caught the pieces. Perhaps a text. 

_Seen the report on the homicide in Barnet?_

Ten minutes, then a response. _No. What is it?_

 _Could be of interest._ Mycroft could do his own legwork, damn him. 

No response. Mycroft was hunting, trying to figure out where the significance lay. Meanwhile, Sherlock went to put on the kettle. When it whistled (he’d forgotten about it already), he went to the kitchen and made tea. Found biscuits in the pantry next to the bone saw, the assortment that John liked, and put some on a plate. (John liked the wafers, always chose them first.) (This sad little dance, trying to please John. What did he have to offer compared to the safe emotional bond of traditional wife and home, normal life, normal routine?) Sherlock repressed the thought, pressing his lips together, and carried the tray into the sitting room. 

John stirred at his footsteps, turned onto his back and stretched. Blinked and swallowed. Turned his head and saw Sherlock. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Fifty-three minutes.” He put the tea tray down on one of the side tables, the only one not covered in books and newspapers. “Feeling better?”

John yawned and sat up. “Much.”

“Tea?”

“Love some.” John got up and went to sit in his customary chair across from Sherlock, who was pouring. 

He set the teapot down and waited for John to tell him he had to leave. The part he hated the most, long before it happened. Foreshadowing the day when, in the not-so-distant future, John would tell him that he was leaving in a more permanent fashion? He could hear it already, _Can’t keep doing this, It isn’t fair to Mary, It’s too complicated_. The script was already written. Why not execute it now and spare everyone the pain? Surely the longer it went on (and it had been all of a week now), the more complicated and painful it would become for John to extricate himself from the situation. He would be doing John a favour. He watched John over his cup. John was sleepy from his nap, the lines under his eyes a little deeper, like in the mornings. John had always been slow to wake, barely speaking until he’d showered. 

Suddenly John glanced at him. “What?” he asked with a smile that was only partially self-conscious. (Oh, John.)

Sherlock shrugged and made a non-committal noise. No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He drank some tea and waited. 

“Did Lestrade call?”

“No. I expect it will take several hours before they find anything else.”

John settled back into the chair. “What’s the time?”

It didn’t sound like a preface to a leaving announcement, just idle curiosity. He could have looked at his phone but had chosen to ask Sherlock, who would merely check his own. He knew this game; it was a gambit to get Sherlock to speak. “Twenty past six,” he said, indulging John in the little game. 

“Hmm,” John said. He drank some more tea, waking. “Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“Who do you think it is? The murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. 

“No ideas?” John was watching him. “None at all?”

He hesitated. Tell John his suspicion? There really wasn’t anything to go on. “Not really, no. It’s too early to tell.”

“But you don’t think it could be connected to… him? Moriarty?”

Sherlock put his cup down. “Moriarty is dead.”

“I know that, but someone in his organisation? You said that Moran was still on the loose, when you were telling me, that first night that you came back…” John looked concerned. 

“Mycroft’s people still haven’t heard anything. It’s probably just some lunatic with an attention complex.” 

“Hmm.” John drained his cup, reached over and poured some more. His phone rang in his jacket pocket, over on the sofa. He went to get it and Sherlock waited, already knowing. John looked at it and sighed. “Hello,” he said. Pause. “No, everything’s fine, sorry. I’m just at Baker – at Sherlock’s. There’s a case.” Pause while Mary spoke. “I’m not sure how much longer, it depends whether the police call us back.” Then, “Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” A longer pause. John rubbed at his forehead. (Trying to shield himself. Too obvious to go into the kitchen, where he knew Sherlock could hear him anyway. “You’re right, I should have called. I’m sorry. Yes. Yes, I will. All right. Bye.” 

Sherlock was watching him, waiting. A small silence descended over the room. He wasn’t going to be the one to break it. 

John put the phone in his pocket. “She’s not happy with me.”

Obviously. “You’re leaving,” Sherlock said. It was not a question. 

John winced as though he’d been hit. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s usually what happens when your wife calls.” Couldn’t say her name. 

John gave him a look that was half-exasperated, half… something else. “I believe that’s how it’s supposed to work. Look, I told her I didn’t know when we’d be done here. Lestrade might call back. You could think of something that needs investigating. We’ve got a case. I want to be here, with you. Mary knows that.”

He felt his eyes glitter. “Does she know that it’s not just a case that you’re here for?”

“Of course not,” John said, cheeks heating visibly. “Isn’t it easier if we…”

Sherlock went rigid. There were a number of ways the sentence could end and he suddenly didn’t want to hear any of them. 

John stopped, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Looked at him, eyes scanning Sherlock’s (impassive, he hoped) face. Something changed, softened. “Sherlock…”

“Isn’t it easier if we what.” He sounded like a robot, the final _t_ clipped as though someone had snipped off the end of his sentence with scissors. Could feel the tightness in his mouth and chin. (Obstinate. The only way.)

“Look, stop doing this,” John said, but it wasn’t harsh. “I get it. I get it and I – I don’t know what to say. But don’t do this.”

Sherlock looked off to his right somewhere, away from John. Easy for John to say; he wasn’t the one being left. 

John bit his lip. Even peripherally, he could always tell what was happening on his face. “Could you say something?” he asked lamely. 

Looked at him. Hard gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

John swallowed. “Christ, your eyes,” he mumbled, as though to himself. He crossed the room and put his hands down on either side of the armchair, bending over Sherlock, his face five inches away. “I want you say something normal. Like ask me if I want to have dinner.”

He was on the verge of refusing, just to be stubborn, but that would only serve to send John home in a huff. To _her_. He grabbed a handful of John’s shirt and pulled him down, causing him to lose his balance, half falling onto Sherlock. Speaking directly against John’s mouth, he said, “Dinner?”

John sank onto his lap, forearms coming to lean against Sherlock’s shoulder, knees tucking between Sherlock’s hips and the chair, mouth meeting Sherlock’s more than willingly. It was rougher than Sherlock had intended, more of his anger spilling into it than he’d thought. (Mine. Do not want to share.) John made no obvious protest, though. (If he wanted war zones, Sherlock would create one in his mouth for him.) 

The phone ringing was a most unwelcome interruption. He let it ring four times before pulling it out of his pocket. Lestrade. “Hello?” His voice had gone all rough and John, still inches from his face, smiled and licked his lips. 

“We’ve got a name and an address,” Lestrade said. “Do you want to see the place tonight or wait until tomorrow?”

Sherlock thought a moment, calculated, looking at John, and said, “Tonight. Where?”

Lestrade gave the address. “John still with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, bring him along, he might want to see this.” Lestrade hung up. 

John put a thumb on Sherlock’s lower lip, rubbed it dry. “Where is it?”

“Lauriston Gardens,” Sherlock said, then, “I know.” Before John could say it. 

“Now?”

“Yes.” Sherlock waited for John to let him up. “Are you coming? Lestrade asked for you.”

“Of course,” John said, in some surprise. He went to the sofa and pulled the jacket on. “Let’s go.”

***

The charred lump in the middle of the bed smelled faintly of steak. Slightly disturbing thought. 

Sherlock stood on one side of the bed, John on the other, with Lestrade watching them both from the foot. “Was there anything else here?”

“How’d you know?” Lestrade snapped his fingers and a forensics officer brought over an evidence bag. “This was on the pillow. Right in the middle.” He handed the bag to Sherlock. 

He held it up to the light to examine it. 

“Is that what I think it is?” John asked, squinting. 

“An origami lotus, yes.” Sherlock passed the bag across the bed. “And is that what _I_ think it is?”

John nodded. “Bit hard to tell with all the charring, but yes, I think so. A heart.”

“Whose?”

“The victim’s, I’d guess,” John said, eyes wide and concerned. 

“Has the autopsy been completed?” Sherlock asked Lestrade. 

“Not yet.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Molly,” Lestrade said. “She’s probably partway through it now.”

“I’m going over,” Sherlock said. “There was nothing else here?”

“No,” Lestrade said. “She had no ID on her, so we’re waiting on Molly for the dental records. We don’t even know if this was her house, except a neighbour said that a woman with dark hair lived here, and she hasn’t been seen in weeks. The neighbour didn’t even know her name. We’re only going on a guess that it’s the same case. I mean, given these weird little hints. The lotus, that’s from a case you had years ago with the Chinese gang, right? Dimmock’s case? One of the earlier ones that John blogged about.”

“Right, yes,” John said. “That’s exactly it. That, and a burnt heart.”

His eyes were waiting for Sherlock’s a little too pointedly from across the bed. Sherlock met them for a moment and looked back at Lestrade. “We’re going to Bart’s. Call me if you find anything else.”

“Will do.”

In the taxi, John was quiet. Worried. As they pulled up to the hospital, he said, “I don’t like this.”

“What, precisely?” Sherlock opened the door and got out. 

John waited for him to walk around the car and said, falling into step beside him, “This whole case so far. I mean, someone’s definitely trying to get your attention. Why?”

“I don’t know yet.” They pushed through the revolving doors and headed downstairs. 

Molly had the door locked, but came to let them in. Her apron was speckled with blood and she was masked: not finished yet. She was gabbling away about that, warning them that she’d only just finished stitching the victim up again, hadn’t processed everything yet. 

Sherlock cut her off. “Anything unusual?”

She stopped, midstream. (Reproachful look from John.) “Yes, actually,” she said. He already knew what she was going to say. “The victim’s heart was removed. Post-mortem. She was stitched up pretty well, but I’d say not by a surgeon. I’d guess someone with military first aid training and perhaps some experience with it, but not a doctor. Not a professional.”

Another piece fell into place. “Time of death?”

She nodded at John. “Exactly what John said, going by Greg’s report. And he was right, she was killed by asphyxiation with a pillow. She wasn’t drowned. The hair was dyed post-mortem and I would say that you’re right that she was dressed post-mortem, too.”

“Dental records?”

Molly went to a computer. “It just came up before you got here, but I was in the middle of stitching her back up. Her name is Rachel Richardson. She’s forty-one and her address is the one in Lauriston Gardens.”

John looked at Sherlock. “Which we knew already, didn’t we,” he said. “Rachel?”

“I know,” Sherlock said, gazing at the Y-stitching on the corpse’s bruised chest. “Anything else?”

“No,” Molly said. “I’ll call Greg and give him the name, I just need to wash up.”

John’s phone pinged. He pulled it out, frowned, and sent a text. It pinged again immediately, typed again. When it pinged the third time, he did not respond.

Sherlock observed this all peripherally and said nothing. John said nothing. He surreptitiously glanced at a wall clock; it was past midnight. “Hungry?” he said eventually, just to break the silence. 

John gave a short laugh. “We never did get to dinner, did we?” He walked over to where Sherlock was standing. “I _am_ hungry, now that you mention it. Slightly put off by the burnt heart business, but still.”

Sherlock could see Molly in her office, on the phone with her back to them. He lifted his brows and lowered his voice. “Hungry for what?”

John’s expression changed subtly. “Where did you learn how to be so seductive?” he murmured with a short laugh. “I mean, it’s not like you’re not a quick learner, but…”

He was very close, suspiciously close (to outside eyes), mouth tilting up toward Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked toward Molly’s office again. Still on the phone, still facing the other way. He smiled down at John and put his mouth on his. John’s lips opened under his immediately, tongues touching, the outside world fading. 

“So Greg says that we – oh!”

Molly Hooper. More time had gone by than he’d realised it would. She sounded utterly shocked. Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John’s look. John closed his briefly and said, “Well, shit. Isn’t this awkward.”

He turned around and Molly was stammering, looking back and forward between them. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t – I didn’t know, I – ”

“It’s all right, Molly.” Sherlock spoke up. “Apologies. Do excuse us.”

“I didn’t mean to just burst in like that,” Molly said, cheeks pink. “I’m – but – ” She looked at John, not quite accusing. “I didn’t _know_ ,” she repeated. 

John sighed. “That was sort of the idea,” he said. “Our fault for not exactly choosing the best moment.”

“I won’t say anything,” Molly vowed, eyes wide. “But – was it – was it always – you know – like… like that, with you two?”

“No,” John said. He sounded frustrated. “I know everyone thought so, but this is actually relatively new.” He looked at Sherlock as though checking for approval. Sherlock could only shrug. He didn’t particularly care either way, to be honest, but it was John who had a marriage and appearances to keep up. 

“Okay,” Molly said, nodding quickly, eyes still darting back and forth between them. “I see. Well – erm – I’m glad.”

John’s eyebrows went up at that. “You are,” he said, surprised. 

“Yes, actually. Sherlock’s been so much happier lately. Now I understand why. Anyway,” Molly said, her voice higher, cheeks still pink, “I’ve told Greg who she was and confirmed her address. He said to tell you that they’ll look into her family connections and all that and that he’ll call you in the morning, they’ve all gone home for the night.”

“Have you finished?” John asked, nodding at the corpse. 

“Yes, actually. I was going to go, unless you need to stay…?” She directed this at Sherlock. 

“No, we’ll go,” he said. They left the lab, Molly shutting off the lights and locking the doors. When they reached the outside doors, he gave Molly a real smile. “Thank you,” he said.

It wasn’t much, but she understood, smiled back. “I’m glad,” she said again. 

John looked up and down the street for a taxi, arms crossed. Suddenly he began to laugh, shaking his head and covering his face. “Christ,” he said. “Molly Hooper. Of all people.”

Sherlock joined him in the laugh. “Bit awkward, that.”

“At least she’ll almost certainly keep it to herself,” John said, the laugh fading back into worry. “You mind if I stay at Baker Street tonight?”

“Of course not.”

“Mary’s… well. Not exactly happy that I’m here. You were right about that,” John said. The lines around his mouth deepened. 

“I know I was.” Quick look, but John didn’t seem to be having a crisis over it. “You know you can stay at Baker Street any time you want to.”

A taxi pulled up before John could reply, but inside, he slid over to Sherlock and put his hand high up on the inside of his thigh, over the coat. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”


	8. Affirmation/German Romanticism

**Chapter Eight: Affirmation/German Romanticism**

 

He hung his coat behind the door and closed it. Could hear John pulling his jacket off and wondered what was going to happen now, what exactly was supposed to happen. John had not slept over since the night before his wedding, had never slept anywhere here besides his own bed upstairs or the sofa. Sherlock thought of John sleeping in Mary’s bed at Queen’s Gate Gardens and felt the burn of jealousy blacken something within him. He knew where he wanted John to sleep. He turned around to find John standing near the sofa, watching him (uncertain?).

The moment lengthened. They had kissed outside the door, in the stairwell, twice, no, three times on the way up, why the sudden return of awkwardness? John was here. Clearly wanted to be here. Why hesitate? (Possibility that John didn’t want it to go any further, any deeper than it already had. Consider.) (Pause.) (Reject. Form new pattern.)

“I’ll just… I’ll just find a blanket, then?” John asked. It was a question, his mouth still in question-shape, eyebrows lifted.

(Being polite? Not wanting to intrude, to presume. Ah.) He understood. “There are blankets in my room,” Sherlock said succinctly. 

John still looked hesitant. “I can get another one, I don’t need to take – ” He stopped. 

Sherlock looked at him intently, evaluating. (Impatient.) “Do you want to sleep out here?” It was blunt. (Too blunt?) He didn’t know. 

“If you want me to, I – ” John was all apologies. He thought he was being too forward for being here. (Why? It wasn’t as though Sherlock cared about his marriage.)

He took three long steps closer and looked down at John. “No.”

“No?” John looked his questions up into his face. 

“No.” Sherlock put a hand on John’s arse, pulled him closer. “Not out here.”

“I see,” John managed weakly. A grin. “All right, then.”

Sherlock released him and went to the bedroom, fully expecting John to follow him. He did. Sherlock smiled to himself and took his suit jacket off, folding it over the chair in the corner. He unbuttoned his cuffs, then his shirt, watching John, who was just standing there, watching him. (Why the hesitation again? It wasn’t as though they hadn’t seen each other countless times in pyjamas, dressing gowns, shirtless, even less. Explanation: This was different. All right. Say something?) He nodded at John’s long-sleeved t-shirt. “You still have that shirt.”

John looked down at it, gave a short laugh. “Even after you set it on fire, yeah. It still has a hole here.” He pointed. “I always liked it. Maybe more after the fire.” He seemed to relax and pulled it off. 

Sherlock watched him subtly, shedding the shirt. John was still trim, muscular. Ever so slightly softer in the middle, but then, he’d had three fairly sedentary years. Now that they were back in the business, he’d lose that. Besides, Sherlock didn’t care. He unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them, aware that John was trying to hide the fact that he was paying attention rather closely. John’s jeans came off. Sherlock pulled his socks off and left them on the floor. Debated, then decided to leave his pants on and got into bed, John climbing in on the other side. 

They’d never done this, slept together in the same bed. It felt different, yet completely natural. It occurred to him that John was very much accustomed to sharing a bed with another person. Sherlock had never done it. (Hated that John was so much more familiar with it than he was, and why.) He and John had fallen asleep on the sofa watching the news late at night, or DVDs that John would insist he watch with him (always exasperated that Sherlock had deduced the entire plot before half the movie had gone by). They’d fallen asleep in taxis in the middle of the night. Why was this so different? (Unclear. But clearly it was.)

He was propped up on one elbow; John lay on his back and looked at the ceiling, let out his breath in a long stream. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sherlock. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“What don’t you know?” He kept his voice measured, carefully free of tension or other emotion. Important to keep John comfortable. 

John made a shrugging motion. “I want to be here. You know I do. Somehow it just feels more… like I’m really cheating on my wife in being here, in your bed. I want to be here,” he said again. “And I… I know that I’m already cheating on her. It all makes some sort of sense in my head because in a way, I feel like you had first priority all along. I mean, I loved you first. And it also feels like I’m cheating on you when I’m with Mary. I’m… confused. Not about how I feel, but what I’m _supposed_ to be feeling, what I’m supposed to do about it…”

Sherlock listened to all of this in silence. Thought. (Don’t know what to say.) He knew what he wanted to ask, but now was perhaps not the moment. 

John seemed to hear that he had an unspoken thought, though. He turned his head. “What are you thinking?”

Sherlock adjusted the position of his face against his knuckles. “I don’t know.”

“Sherlock. Tell me.” John was not fooled. 

“Are you still sleeping with her?” Of course he was. Why had he even asked? Hearing it out loud would just make it real, make it sting more. 

John sighed deeply. “Not since… five days ago,” he said, thinking. “And when we did, it… it didn’t work.”

“Didn’t… work?” Sherlock repeated, not understanding. 

John looked frustrated, stared at the ceiling. “I, erm. Couldn’t stay interested,” he said, his cheeks staining red. “And Mary was not terribly nice about it, either.”

Oh. He understood now. “Does that happen often?”

“It never used to,” John said. “It’s pretty embarrassing, honestly. And on the honeymoon, she was so angry with me about the ring that she didn’t even want to until the fourth night, and I couldn’t then because it was awkward with her still being angry. It was better after that, but she told me toward the end of the honeymoon that I wasn’t very good at it.”

Sherlock felt his brows draw together. “At any of it?”

“She said I never had been much good, that way, but that she loved me anyway. That I hadn’t been good at it since we’d first started and that it’s just been getting worse and worse.” 

It wasn’t that he exactly wanted John and Mary to be having fantastic, brilliant sex, but he was nonetheless angry on John’s behalf. The notion that Mary Morstan thought she had the right to criticise John ( _his_ John), strip him of his masculinity and lay him bare like that – “That’s ridiculous,” he said, hearing the anger in his voice. 

John still didn’t look at him, looking miserable. “She said something in a text tonight when I said I wasn’t going to be home because of the case, about how she wouldn’t be missing much anyway.”

A rejection. A month into their marriage and Mary was making John feel worthless. With the constant weight of the missing ring as leverage, added to John’s apparent inexpert behaviour in the bedroom, and Sherlock suddenly understood why it had been easier for John to make the first move toward him, pressured into it from Sherlock’s threat (offer) to remove himself as such conflicting presence in John’s life. That fit now. It had occurred to him in passing that for someone of John’s fierce loyalty to actively choose infidelity so seemingly easily was odd, but he also agreed that he had the prior claim to John. John, who didn’t trust most people, but he had chosen to trust him almost since the beginning, despite what he’d said. They’d chosen each other from the first. Mary was the intruder, the unwelcome interloper. And John needed confirmation, affirmation. Reassurance. Never the most confident of men, to be thus undermined by his closed-face, manipulative, scheming wife was almost more than Sherlock could bear. 

He put a hand on John’s chest, gently. Chose his words with care. “John,” he said. He wanted to say _She’s never seen the real you, She doesn’t even know you, You’re amazing, you are luminous, no matter what I once said._ “She’s wrong. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. And I don’t want her to. You are the only person to have ever… elicited a physical response in me that was too strong to ignore. The only person to have ever been worth all of the complication.”

John turned his face again, looking up at him. “Am I really worth it?” He was as exposed as Sherlock had felt that first time, a week ago, the night John had lost his cane. As exposed as he’d been all of those nights that Sherlock had followed and guarded him from harm. 

He bent over John, shivering at the sensation of his bare skin against John’s and put his mouth on John’s. Felt John’s hand cover his own against his chest. “Yes,” he said, only just lifting his head. “Definitely worth it.”

John responded immediately, arms coming around Sherlock’s back, legs hooking around Sherlock’s, pulling him further onto himself. Sherlock was lying directly on top of him now, could already feel that they were both aroused, could feel the heat of John through the thin layers of cotton. John’s hands went to his arse, pulling him closer. Sherlock moved against him instinctively, following the intrinsic rhythm of this (not something that required a lot of thought). “Sher – Sherlock,” John said, voice giving out, whispering. His hands were inside Sherlock’s pants, pushing them down. “Take these off.”

Sherlock paused. To move away even for that, even just for a moment, was an unwelcome thought. He wasn’t particularly self-conscious, but it nevertheless would also be strange to be fully nude in front of John. Not even a sheet. “All right,” he said. He rolled to the edge of the bed, got up and switched off the lamp on the night table, and stepped out of his pants. There was moonlight and streetlight slanting in through the window, and John, who had struggled out of his pants without getting out of bed, was watching him. Sherlock felt absurdly exposed, more naked than naked usually felt, completely conscious of his jutting erection gleaming in the light. For a moment he just stood there uncertainly. (Waiting for confirmation that he should come back? Waiting for evaluation?) He did not know. 

John was on his side, lips parted. His tongue came out to wet his lower lip. He swallowed. “God, Sherlock. You’re – you’re – what are you even doing with me?”

The hesitation shifted the balance within Sherlock’s head. He smiled and got back into bed, climbed onto John again, felt John’s cock against his (shiver at the contact). “What we should have done years ago.” 

Evidently John agreed, judging by the noises he was making. His hands were on Sherlock’s arse again and they slid against each other. The feeling of having so much of himself touching so much of someone else was intoxicating, and the fact that it was John was narcotic. He understood now, what he hadn’t understood for so long, why people got so worked up about their relationships. He had always understood why people cared, knew in that moment on the roof at St. Bartholomew’s that, if need be, he would have actually died to save John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. John in particular. And Moriarty had known that he would. Knew what many other people seemed not to know: that Sherlock Holmes was indeed capable of caring. He looked down at John’s face and thought the word _love_. He could not say it. (Not yet.) 

John arched up against him, a low sound releasing in his throat, the sound so raw and needing and full of arousal that Sherlock stopped thinking and devoted all of his energy into moving, into maximising the contact between them. So primal (primary) this, this particular sort of touch. He could hear his breathing, pounding in his ears, could hear John’s, could feel John’s pulse echoing into his own chest, in their cocks. John took hold of both of them then, fist wet with saliva moving roughly over both of them, and the rhythm went a bit awry with Sherlock moving in one rhythm while John’s hand moved in another, but it didn’t seem to matter, they were finding the same rhythm now and John was pushing off the bed, leg locked around Sherlock’s for leverage and suddenly it was coming over both of them, the wave. Sherlock felt his face stretch in a grimace, teeth gritted, breath stopping, catching again, felt himself coming all over John’s stomach and hand. John’s hand was flying now, his cock pulsing, twitching against Sherlock’s, and then his voice rising, hips jerking, and then the wetness was spattering Sherlock’s body. 

Sounds came back into focus, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock felt his body relax, allowed John to pull his face down, kiss him weakly. He slid to the side, leaving their legs tangled together, not breaking the kiss. John’s warm hands were still touching him, stroking, as though constantly reassuring, affirming. (Interesting: that they both felt the need to reassure each other this way.) “I love you,” John murmured. “Sherlock – it wouldn’t matter if I’d got married to ten different people. It was always you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes in the dark, but John’s were closed, his breathing slowing. 

He watched until John was asleep, then slowly, cautiously allowed himself to follow him into sleep. 

***

He woke to John sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his socks on. Wet hair. He’d showered. Been awake for at least half an hour. He must have heard Sherlock’s breathing change and looked back over his shoulder. He smiled. “Morning.”

He’d wanted to wake up with John, was disappointed with himself for not having heard him wake. “Morning.”

“Lestrade called twice,” John said. “Wasn’t sure if I should have just answered it, but you might want to call him.”

He blinked, pulled his thoughts into focus. “Are you leaving?”

“Just getting dressed,” John said. “I was going to make tea.” 

“Not going to work?”

“It’s Saturday,” John said, smiling at him. (There was a time when he would have rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s ignorance.)

“Oh.”

“I’ll make that tea. You’ll probably want to shower,” John said, eyes travelling down over Sherlock’s bare chest. “I was pretty sticky when I woke up. Next time I’ll keep a flannel on hand. Should have thought of that.”

 _Next time._ Sherlock almost smiled. “All right.”

John leaned over and kissed him quickly. “Call Lestrade and shower. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Sherlock stretched, yawned, and padded into the bathroom. John was right; his stomach, chest, and genitals were crusted and sticky. Appalling. The thought made him smile. He was half-hard in the shower. He hadn’t masturbated in all his life as much as he had in the past few weeks. He wondered if John had in the shower, too, and decided that he had. He thought of it as he came, imagined their combined genetic material mingling on the wall of the shower, strands of DNA intertwining and sliding down the drain. 

His phone was ringing as he walked back into the bedroom to get dressed. Lestrade. “Hello.”

“Was starting to think you were dead,” came Lestrade’s voice. “I texted John and he said you were still asleep. What’s he doing at Baker Street first thing in the morning, if you’re still asleep?”

Sherlock chose to ignore this. “What have you found?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade said. “There was nothing special about it at all, other than the weird little things related to your old cases. She had no family, none living at least, no connections. Her own neighbours didn’t know her name, the postman never recalled having met her, people in the neighbourhood shops recognised her photo but no one knew anything about her. You noticed her name, I assume. My theory is that the killer picked a random person named Rachel just to add to the list of references to you, bonus that she was someone without many connections. Was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Sherlock didn’t tell him that that had been his theory, too. “Any leads on the killer?” He already knew the answer. 

“None whatsoever. It was clean. Really clean. Too clean.” Lestrade sounded frustrated; nothing new there. “I’ll keep you posted if we find anything else.”

“Do you want me to come back to the house?”

“There’s not much point, is there? If you didn’t see anything last night, I don’t know what you’d find today. This is a professional. Knows what he’s doing.”

“Keep me posted, then,” Sherlock said, and hung up. 

“Anything?” John asked from the kitchen. 

Sherlock went to sit down across from him, buttoning his cuffs under the sleeves of his blue silk dressing gown. “No. No leads.”

John turned a page of the newspaper. “Lestrade asked me what I was doing here if you weren’t awake yet. He texted me.”

“Yes, he said something about that on the phone,” Sherlock said. “Toast?”

“Already in the toaster.” John turned another page. “Much as I hate to say it, I did say I would go home. Mary texted again. I said I’d get the shopping.”

The toaster popped and Sherlock busied himself extracting the toast, buttering both pieces and setting one down in front of John. “Now?”

“Not right away. In a few minutes. Ta.” John opened the jam jar and spread strawberry jam liberally over the toast. “You know, don’t you, that nothing changes when I leave.”

“Everything changes,” Sherlock said sharply. “You won’t be here.”

John looked up and smiled at that. “Only physically,” he said. 

He felt something in his chest unclench a bit at that. He picked up his toast and took a bite. “When are you coming back?”

“Whenever you need me for the case, or… whenever you want,” John said, still smiling. “Dinner tomorrow night, maybe?”

“Not until then?”

John didn’t sigh; his smile was a little too understanding. “Sooner if I can. We’ll see.”

It would have to be enough. (Hated sharing.)

***

Mycroft was more than unpleasant when he descended upon 221B in the afternoon. Sherlock was in the middle of a Schumann phrase (from the concerto in d minor) when he heard the squeaky stair creak. John always knew how to avoid the squeaky part (by stepping on the extreme right, of course). Mycroft knew it, too, he assumed, which meant that he wanted Sherlock to know that he was there. 

“That bowing was appalling,” Mycroft said from the doorway, in the middle of a phrase. Rude. For a man so hell-bent on appearances and etiquette and proper conduct, he could certainly be rude when he chose.

“I am out of practise,” Sherlock said stiffly. The part of him that had been expanding and uncoiling in the warmth of John, of being admired and wanted and loved recoiled upon itself; he was smaller in Mycroft’s presence. Always. A smaller version of himself, lesser, unimportant, overshadowed, outmatched. The bow dropped to his side, the fire seeping from the strings. 

“I know.” Mycroft was indifferent. He leaned on his umbrella. “Schumann. Honestly, Sherlock.”

He said nothing, just stood where he was in the window, holding the violin in front of himself like a small shield. It wouldn’t work; nothing could shield a person from Mycroft, especially when he was angry, and he was clearly angry. He always felt ten years old again when Mycroft got like this; Mycroft home for a week-end visit, the only attention he could spare for his awkward young brother being to torment him with mental games until he’d provoked him into an outburst, upsetting the household with his then-uncontrollable temper, his frustration and sense of helplessness to shield himself from his brother’s scrutiny. _“He’s frightfully short for his age, don’t you think? And appallingly skinny. Aren’t you lot feeding him? Still struggling with your class compositions, Sherlock?”_ He could remember all of it. He didn’t usually let himself think about it, but something about Mycroft’s presence always put him back in those moments, reminded him that Mycroft remembered him from those days. Would never see him as anything but that awkward, gangly child he’d been, no matter what anyone else thought of him. “What do you want.”

“This is how you’re spending your Saturday? Hanging about in your dressing gown, butchering Schumann?”

John would have said something in his defense, said that his playing was beautiful. But John was shopping. With or without Mary, he was shopping for Mary. And it was true, he’d been making a hash of the Schumann, which was old and half-remembered. John wouldn’t have known the difference, but Mycroft did. He said nothing, staring out the window across the street. 

“You texted me about the murder in Watling Park,” Mycroft pressed, impatient. “I read the preliminary reports. What are you doing at home? We both know what this is.”

Sherlock turned. “Do we, in fact?”

Mycroft’s eyes were hard. “There’s only one person this could be.”

“Not true,” Sherlock said at once. “There are any number of criminals desperate to get noticed and caught, somehow recognised. This could be anyone.”

“No leads,” Mycroft said. “No clues, except for those deliberately planted. This is the work of a professional and you know it.”

“There are lots of professionals.” Sherlock considered his words. “Lestrade is on it, but there are no leads.”

“There is only one person who has a vested interest in getting to you,” Mycroft said, tapping the point of his umbrella on the floor for emphasis. “And instead of contacting me, or pursuing all leads, here you are, drooping about playing romantic music – _German_ romantic music – and mooning over John.”

Flash of temper. “I am not _mooning._ ”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. Without a word, he pulled an envelope out of the briefcase he’d set on John’s chair and extracted two photographs. He passed them to Sherlock in silence. 

The first was taken at night, time-stamped 12:41am. Sherlock’s left hand was twisting a key in the door to 221B but he was turned toward the street, his right hand on John’s shoulder. John’s hands were reaching toward his waist, his face turned up to Sherlock’s, smiling, mouths perhaps six inches apart, Sherlock smiling down at him. They were very obviously just about to kiss. The second photograph was time-stamped 11:09am, John leaving the flat and looking well-rested and content. “Excellent photography,” Sherlock said. “That’s a nice one of John. You should give it to him.” He handed them back.

“Perhaps I should give it to his wife,” Mycroft said, an edge to his voice. 

He felt the anger on his face. “What does it matter to you, Mycroft, honestly? You knew about all of this, anyway. You knew before it even started. What’s the problem?”

He was clenching the bridge of the violin. Mycroft’s face grew ugly, as it always did when he was feeling particularly indisposed toward Sherlock. “The problem is that you need to be on top of your game, not acting like a lovesick teenager!” he snapped. “I know that this is your first actual relationship, Sherlock, and I understand that it’s all very new for you. The fact that your lover is married on top of it is sure to bring up a lot of emotions, and you’re not exactly accustomed to dealing with those, now are you?”

Sherlock could say nothing. He stared at the far wall and wished Mycroft would leave. 

“Caring is not an asset,” Mycroft reminded him. “We have had this discussion. I need you focused and sharp. Mrs Hudson says you do nothing but lie about and mope when he’s not here. Moran could be gathering his forces all around you and you might not even be aware of it. Last night – ” he indicated the first photograph – “what if there had been a sniper in the flat opposite? A surveillance vehicle stationed two doors down? A suspicious loiterer across the street? You wouldn’t have noticed, you were busy giggling like a schoolgirl with her first boyfriend.” The back of his hand smacked down on the photo.

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. It was true, not that he was about to admit it. He’d thought of nothing but John. 

Mycroft knew that he had him pinned. “Focus, Sherlock,” he repeated. “Now that I am aware of this case, we will be paying close attention, but you are your own worst enemy some days. I am merely concerned about you.”

“Your concern is your only motivation, of course,” Sherlock said, voice dry and lifeless to his own ears. 

“Well, mostly.” Mycroft favoured him with an unpleasant smile and picked up his suitcase. “I couldn’t care less, of course, about John. I always suspected, anyway, though I admit I’m a little surprised that you ever followed through on it. Oh, I knew that you cared for him – if you hadn’t, you never would have had to die, would you? Ironic, isn’t it? If you had never ‘died’, he never would have married that dreadful woman. Your caring created the trap. I’m pleased for you that he isn’t letting his marriage stand in the way of caring for you, in this way.” He was being sanctimonious and calling it kindness in his own mind. “But you need to focus, Sherlock. We do not want to stage a second death, now do we?”

***

Sunday night. True to his word, John had promised to meet him for dinner. However, an hour before it, he texted and said that something had come up and asked if he could come to Baker Street instead, right away. Sherlock texted back _Of course_ and paced in front of the windows, wondering what had happened. 

Ten minutes went by before he saw the taxi stop, saw John struggle out of it, limping slightly. The door was unlatched and he came up, avoiding the squeaky one out of habit. The door opened and he was there, and his face…

Sherlock started. “What’s the matter?” he asked, urgent, going to him. “John. Are you all right?”

“All wrong,” John said. He was breathing quickly, pulse accelerated at the wrist under Sherlock’s fingers. He pulled his hand away and Sherlock saw it in his eyes: accusation. 

His guts turned to ice. “What’s happened?” His heart was hammering like staccato in his rib cage. He could feel his eyes draining of colour. 

John shook his head. “I’m so confused and I don’t know what to think, what to believe. We just had an enormous row. Mary and I. She says you’re a bad influence on me, that I’m spending too much time with you. She wants me to stop going to work on cases with you. She found out I had missed some time at the surgery the other day and was furious about it. She says I need to be spending more time with her and that’s suspicious for any man to spend as much time with another man without it being…” he gestured between them. “You know. Like this. She _knows_ , Sherlock, she must.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. (Was that all of it, or was there something more?) Everything in his head had turned to chaos. He couldn’t think. Needed to think. His thoughts refused to be marshalled. He was nothing but whirling, knotted, uncontrolled emotion, overwhelmingly afraid. He could well believe that Mary had said all that, but what he didn’t know was what John thought of it, what John was going to do. 

“Would you _say_ something?” John demanded. 

Never had he felt so acutely unable to produce an intelligent thought in formulated words. “I – ” Stop. Swallow. Try again. “Do you agree with her?” The naked fear was on his face, he could feel it. 

“ _No_ ,” John said. But it was a little too emphatic, wasn’t it. (Was it? Yes. He thought it was.)

“I did say that perhaps you shouldn’t keep working with me,” Sherlock said, lips tight and hardly moving. 

John rubbed at his face and went to the sofa, sat down. “She said she thinks I’m gay. That that’s the reason why I… and why I spend so much time with you.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “If she thinks you spend a lot of time with me now, she really would have thought so before, when you lived here.”

He’d hoped John might smile at that, but he didn’t, but put his face down in his hands. “I never thought I was. And maybe I’m not. Maybe it’s just you. But it’s galling when your own wife thinks you’re gay because you’re not… interested in sex any more.”

He exhaled hard and looked over at Sherlock, who was clearly expected to say something to this. Feeling no less unsure of himself, he went and sat down beside John. “I wouldn’t say that you’re completely uninterested in sex,” he said. 

“You know what I mean,” John said, unhappy. But he didn’t shake off the arm Sherlock put around his shoulders. Rather, he put a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. (Warm.) 

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. (Oh. Compassion. Yes.) 

“She also said,” John said, with an air of getting the worst over with, “that I should ask you if you stole my wedding ring.”

The flat went very quiet. Not moving, Sherlock said, his voice coming out flat, “You aren’t actually asking me that. You’re just telling me what she said.”

“She said you took it to create trouble between us, so that I would want to spend more time with you.” John was staring resolutely forward. “To manipulate me into wanting to spend more time with you.”

Neither of them had moved. Sherlock’s arm was still around his shoulders; John’s palm was still warm on his trousers. (How he wished he could retract his arm now.) Sherlock said nothing. He had no proof; what could he say? If he denied it, it would be his words against Mary’s. And she had the ring. Until he knew what she’d done with it, there was nothing he could say. 

John sighed. “For the record, I don’t think you took my ring. I’m not asking if you did. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Sherlock was still quiet, thinking. Trying to think. (Failing.)

John turned to look at him for a long moment. Then, “I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a wreck. Would you mind if we just ordered take-out?”

“Not at all.” His voice still sounded tight. (Was it going to be like this every time?)

John leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I told her I was going out for some air,” he said. “I never said when I’d be back.”

Sherlock turned his face, studying it. “That’s what you always used to say when you were angry with me.”

“I know,” John said, eyes on Sherlock’s mouth. “Ironic, isn’t it.”

“Not really.” Sherlock kissed him. John kissed back hungrily, almost desperately. Needing confirmation, hands on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock broke it to draw breath and said, “Staying tonight?”

“Are you asking me if I want to or if I’m going to?”

(Which did John want him to be asking? Consider.) “I’m asking you to. Stay.”

John looked at him for a bit, as though weighing something in his mind. Then, “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Good. Sherlock closed the space between them again, and in the melée of thought fragments spinning in his brain, one single thought emerged clearly. 

It was time to find the ring.


	9. The Ring/The Hare & Hounds

**Chapter Nine: The Ring/The Hare & Hounds**

 

_Need a favour._

_In a meeting. What do you want?_ Mycroft’s responses were always short when he was interrupted doing something he deemed more important, which was nearly everything.

 _Call me when you’re finished. I’ll explain._ Sherlock put his phone away and drummed his fingers impatiently on kitchen table. John had only just left for the clinic, his cup still sitting across from Sherlock. He pulled open a newspaper and tried to focus on it. John had scanned it and said there was nothing interesting. The Burnt Oak Brook murder had been reported on page four, with Lestrade saying a lot of vague, unconfirmed things. He hadn’t mentioned most of the details pertaining to Sherlock’s old cases. 

His phone rang. Mycroft. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound pleasant. 

“I’m very busy today, Sherlock. This had better be urgent.”

“It is. I need access to some CCTV footage.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“I want to know now.”

“It’s related to a case. I need it.”

Mycroft sighed. “It depends from where and when.”

“One Great George Street, the twelfth of June. From five o’clock to about eleven o’clock should do.”

There was a long pause. “Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

“Investigating. You said you wanted to know what happened to the ring. I am finding you an answer.” When Mycroft didn’t respond immediately, Sherlock added, “I assume that you either had the room wired or that you have access to the building’s CCTV network records.”

A sigh. “We have access,” Mycroft said grudgingly. “When do you need it by?”

“This afternoon would be nice,” Sherlock said, with a concentrated effort at politeness. 

“I’ll send Anthea to Baker Street with it.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft hung up without further comment. 

***

Anthea came at precisely two o’clock and rang the bell. Expecting her, Sherlock went down instead of letting Mrs Hudson deal with it. Not that Anthea would tell her what it was, but still. Best to keep Mrs Hudson’s nose well out of this. He opened the door. Eyes firmly attached to her phone, Anthea wordlessly held out a bulky buff-coloured envelope marked _Security Classification 2/C3a_. 

Sherlock took it from her and closed the door. She was not one for conversation and that suited him just fine. Upstairs, he opened the envelope to find two CDs in plastic cases. He slid the first into his laptop and scanned. The footage showed four different camera angles, one on the emcees, two on the guest tables, one on the head table. He skipped forward to where the wedding party was ushered in and seated, then slowed and watched the images flick jerkily forward. The captures came every thirty seconds, which could be a lot of time. This might not work, at least in terms of proof. He already knew; he just needed to prove it. Saw himself looking bored, occasionally leaning toward either Stamford or John, otherwise picking occasionally at his food. The gold of John’s ring caught and glinted in the candlelight from the small floating candles in their glass bowls on the table. John, getting up, gone in the next frame, still gone for the next twelve frames (had gone to relieve himself, had clearly been stopped by a guest to chat), then he was sitting down again. Glint: the ring was still on his hand. Plate removed, a waiter reaching over. Sherlock froze the frame and watched it again, twice, but it was only the plate he took. And the ring was still on John’s hand. John, leaning over to talk to listen to Sherlock saying something, a troubled expression on his face. Tension in his shoulders. Sherlock had clearly just said something that he was having difficulty understanding or accepting. John, upright again. Then looking down in the next shot, looking down at his hands. No glint of gold: he must have been holding it in his hands, but the image was too grainy to tell. (Possibility of enhancing it? Perhaps.) Next frame: Mary, also looking at John’s hands. John: oblivious of this. (Sherlock also oblivious, holding out his wineglass to a waiter.) Next frame: John holding out his glass. Bare hands. Next shot: Mary’s hand flat on the table in front of John. Next shot: Mary, hands at her low-cut neckline as John sipped his wine with his right hand, his left resting on the table: bare. That was it.

Sherlock watched the short sequence three more times, just to be sure, then sat back in satisfaction. Proof. Mary had taken the ring. John had taken it off, turning it over in his hands, left it unguarded on the table for one moment, thinking only of the waiter and his glass, and in the moment, his newly wedded wife had taken the ring. _Why?_ He understood the power play, certainly, but not the rationale. Not at all. Why bring a power play into question so early in the marriage? He suddenly felt keenly his lack of knowledge concerning relationships, particularly ones involving women, but who did he know who knew more? There was certainly no one he could discuss this with, but even as a hypothetical situation? Obviously not John. Lestrade was out; he had never had the slightest notion of what was going on in the heads of either of the women he’d married (the current wife was sleeping with the neighbour two doors down). Molly Hooper had yet to have a successful relationship in her life. Mrs Hudson would just be flustered and distressed, and she would guess, too. Mycroft might have had his indiscretions in his youth, but any further goings on were surely state level secrets, and besides, he had surely never embarked on anything so distastefully involved as a relationship with another human being. He had his employees and his club acquaintances, and if he had also been physically familiar with some bodies, it could never have been anything beyond that; Mycroft was vastly too selfish with himself to invest in another person on a personal level. What would he know about John and Mary’s marriage, or anyone else’s, for that matter? No: he would simply have to figure this out himself. 

What did he know about their relationship? He’d barely talked to John about it, not wanting to know. He remembered when they met. He’d followed John on that date. (Stab of jealousy. Suppress: trying to think.) They had eaten dinner together, a place so clearly not John’s taste that it had to have been Mary’s choice: French, very upscale. It had been expensive. John had paid. Of course. (Had he missed dining with Sherlock, where they either paid separately, Sherlock paid, or, more frequently, the restaurant put it on the house owing to some past favour of Sherlock’s? Dating must have been expensive by comparison, and while his financial situation had stabilized and grown much stronger, John had never been a wealthy man.) (Focus.) It was irritating, having to remind himself not to let his thoughts wander like wayward sheep. (What did he even know about the ways of sheep? In fact, as herd creatures, thoughts that were like sheep would be more like to move in the same direction. Fine: cats, then.) (Focus.) Sherlock compressed his lips and rubbed his eyes. John had seen Mary again the following week, then again the following week. She had first allowed him to stay over at Queen’s Gate Gardens a month later, and they were engaged two months after that. Mary never visited John at his flat, never spent the night there. (John’s doing? He wondered, now. Unwillingness to surrender all of his privacy, his need for space? Possibly.) Sherlock thought with a smirk of all of the habits he would have been more familiar with than she was in having lived with John for so long. Of course, that had changed now. She lived with John. (But she wasn’t anywhere near as observant.) Sherlock fleetingly wondered what Mary thought of the loss of John’s cane, wondered what had been said when they’d talked about it. He should have asked. 

His sudden reappearance in John’s life had obviously changed things significantly. John had become his former self again, some part of him that had gone dormant in Sherlock’s absence revived once more, blazing up in rekindled interest in things that were outside the realm of that which life with Mary offered. Danger. Adrenaline. Chaos. Violence. The things which John believed, or had tried to believe that he was finished with, at least without Sherlock there to provide him with an outlet into that world. The problem was that he wasn’t finished, and Sherlock was suddenly there to waken John’s appetite for it again. There to give him entrance into a world John believed he had lost, a world where Mary had no place. 

He understood. Jealousy. He understood all too well. (Was that a strong enough motivation? His most recent experiences with jealousy suggested that it could be an extremely strong motivator, indeed.) So she had made a power play, reserving it as leverage for some time in the future when she deduced that she would need to force John’s hand into cutting ties with that world, and Sherlock with it, making him exclusively her own again. 

John had never been her own. That was her first mistake. 

***

He had considered, in moments of fleeting brevity, buying shoes that were more practically suited to a lifestyle of visiting crime scenes on the banks of the Thames, standing in houses littered with bits of human organ tissue, and scaling sloped rooftops. Then again, his image was sacred to him and he refused to trade the Yves Saint Laurents for anything. (What kind of detective wore trainers?) 

Nevertheless. His knees gripping the squared wooden casing around the drain pipe with some pain (sharp corners), Sherlock extended his right arm as far as he could, trying to reach the eaves. Hopefully they were firmly affixed. There was the edge, perfect. It felt relatively solid. He tested it, then concentrated and swung himself onto the gable’s steeply-pitched roof. From there, he could prise the window open to listen first, make sure that Mary was indeed out. (He could have asked Mycroft for that footage, too, but didn’t want to press his luck, or alert him to his current activities, in the event that he wasn’t already aware.) The window wasn’t latched on the inside; it opened at the scrabbling of his left fingers, his right holding to the roof. He’d ascertained that he’d be least noticed by scaling the roof from the rear of the Georgian terrace, but speed was rather of the essence. It was mid-afternoon, a bold time of day for house-breaking. 

He listened intently and heard nothing. Dropping as lightly as he could (observation: not all that lightly, in fact) onto the ornamental balcony in front of the window, he pushed the window further open, waited, listening, then climbed inside. He found himself in a small storage room, a lot of things that didn’t belong to John cluttering it from floor to ceiling. There seemed to be a lot of vaguely Oriental (possibly Indian) things. (Probably trendy clobber she’d acquired back in uni days or something.) He went to the door, which stood half-open and listened again, calculated, eased around the corner. They had a cleaning lady, he knew, but John had said he thought she came on Tuesdays. Today was Monday. Presumably John knew when his own cleaning lady came. He heard nothing in the corridor and began a systematic hunt for the master bedroom. That made the most sense: Mary was someone who played petty games; she would keep the ring deliberately close to John, yet somewhere sufficiently private within their shared space that he wouldn’t go looking for it or stumble upon it by accident. Lingerie drawer. Had to be. In a way, she was terribly predictable. 

The bedroom bore exactly one trace of John’s presence, his identity: a blue cardigan was draped over the back of a chair placed in the corner. The rest of the room was spotless and feminine, carved wooden furniture painted white (hardwood: expensive), thick cream-coloured carpeting. An array of hair products and cosmetics neatly arranged over the long white dresser. There was another chest of drawers near the chair with John’s cardigan with nothing on top. Sherlock knew, though; when John got home from the surgery each day, he would take out his wallet, loose change, and those bits of paper (little notes, receipts) he always seemed to have in his pockets, and lay them out over the surface, coins arranged in stacks from greatest worth to least. He would set his current medical journal on the side night table. There were two there now, both a month out of date. There was another more recent issue of one of them on Sherlock’s night table at Baker Street. Somehow that felt like a small triumph on the battleground of territory, _At least John’s current magazine is at Baker Street_. Petty thought, but it made him feel a bit smug nonetheless. Otherwise… he admitted quietly, that this made him feel sick. Seeing this room, the place where John… he could not even think the words. (Where John was intimate with Mary. Delete. Delete immediately.) (He could not.) 

He stood where he was, breathing with effort, clenched his jaw and reminded himself of his errand. The ring. He had to find the ring. He went to the dresser which obviously belonged to Mary, made an educated guess at the top central drawer. He was correct: it was filled with lacy, frilly, pastel-coloured things. He wondered if John liked those things. The passing thought of John asking _him_ to wear something like that nearly caused him to let out a hysterical laugh (mingled with not a small touch of despair). (How could he compete with this, if it was a wife/home/domestic bliss thing that John wanted? Simply put: he could not. What were the faded Victorian trappings of Baker Street, with its collections of insects and fridge of dubious hygiene compared to Mary’s cleaning lady, luxurious furniture, drawers of lace knickers? He had nothing to offer that could rival this, if this was what John ultimately wanted.) 

(Breathe.) His long fingers probed carefully through Mary’s undergarments, something which he normally felt no hesitancy about whatsoever, when it was a stranger, a case. But this was _Mary_ and the thought of touching fabric which had been adjacent to the very part of her which most threatened anything that existed between he and John filled him with sufficient hatred and distaste for the task at hand that he nearly couldn’t focus at all. But: at the back of the drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief, was a box. The box Sherlock had carried within his jacket pocket for approximately eight hours. Thirty seconds would have been sufficient to memorise the box containing that which would bind John to Mary. It was the same box. He opened it, vaguely aware that his fingers were trembling in self-betrayal. (Sentiment. Again.) The ring sat nestled in its velvet bed, gleaming innocently at him. Clean. New. Practically unworn. 

He stood for a long minute, looking at it and not aware of where his train of thought had gone. After a bit, he wrapped the box in its handkerchief again and replaced it exactly where it had been, adjusted the surrounding undergarments, and closed the drawer. Another check, listening at the doorway, check to see if his footprints had left any made on the carpeting, any speck of dirt (he hardly thought Mary would notice, but he prided him on having taught John _something_ in all their time together). His presence appeared more or less undetectable. He found his way back to the storage room and exited the way he had come. 

***

Now the question was what to do with his proof. Should he sit John down and tell him? How would John react? He had the video. He had seen the ring, firmly and obviously within Mary’s possession. Surely John wouldn’t think he had made it up. (What if he did? What if he thought that Sherlock had planted the ring on Mary?) (No: the video showed, more or less clearly, proof that Mary had taken it at the wedding.) (What if she claimed it was just to keep it safe?) It was too risky. Perhaps he should wait until Mary forced John’s hand in some way. This had to be negotiated with utmost caution. 

He wanted to text John and ask about dinner, but suspected that would be pushing his luck. The night before, they had eaten and then mostly kissed a lot on the sofa while watching the news until John had taken himself back to Queen’s Gate Gardens. He suspected John wouldn’t be permitted another evening away again so soon. Nevertheless, he had changed the bed linens, hung up the clothes he’d left scattered about, and straightened John’s medical journal on the night table. He’d also discovered a book that belonged to John and put it on the table closest to his chair in the sitting room. John used to complain that Sherlock never rinsed out the teapot, clearing out the handful of wet tea leaves and depositing them in the bin, so he did that, too. He wished that John had left some clothing behind, some familiar thing like a jumper or one of those old, quasi military-style jackets that he liked so much. Now that he thought of it, he liked them, too, John’s clothes. They fit with Baker Street, worn and comfortable and old, yet not without a certain style. Quite possibly, judging by his own clothes, someone would say that Sherlock belonged somewhere more like Queen’s Gate Gardens, but he felt that the faded elegance of Baker Street fit him, too. Baker Street united them, somehow, provided some sort of common ground between their individual styles. 

Should he text? Sherlock debated, dubious, holding the phone and looking at it. It rang, startling him. Lestrade. “Yes?”

“There’s been another one, another murder,” Lestrade said, with his customary lack of introduction: the style of a man perpetually overworked and short on time. 

“Same killer?”

“Seems like it’s meant for you to see. You’ll see when you get here. You are coming, then?”

“Where?”

***

“Wait here,” Sherlock instructed the cab driver, and jumped out in front of John’s surgery. 

John was already waiting, though, coming out the door as Sherlock reached for it. “Hi,” he said, the lines between his eyes deeper than usual but managing a smile anyway. They got into the cab. “Glad you called,” he said. “There must be chicken pox going round the neighbourhood; I’ve had nothing but snivelling, miserable kids all day.”

“Glad to get away?” The cab sped off.

“Infinitely. Besides,” John said, with one of his sudden spurts of affection, “I’m happy to see you.”

For a moment he almost forgot the case, smiling back at John. “I was going to text and ask if you wanted to have dinner. Wasn’t sure if I should.”

Worry sketched a shadow over John’s face. “Not sure I could have, without a case to justify it. Now we’ll be lucky if we eat at all, if it’s anything like the usual.”

Sherlock gave a short laugh. “True,” he agreed. 

John inched closer. “Remember our first cab ride to a crime scene? When you explained your deduction of me?”

“Of course.” _Amazing_ , John had said. _Extraordinary. Really, quite extraordinary._ “When you didn’t tell me to piss off.” He put a hand on John’s thigh, without having thought about it first. Spontaneous displays of affection like this rarely happened with him, with the possible exception of Mrs Hudson and even then not often. (What was happening to him? He was becoming clingy. Needy. Not good.)

John didn’t seem to mind at all, however, putting his hand over Sherlock’s. “Good job I didn’t,” he said lightly. 

They arrived at the crime scene in Stratford. Lestrade had given him an address but not a name; the instant Sherlock stepped from the taxi he knew several things at once. First, the name of the building registered instantly. It was dodgy restaurant or perhaps a dodgy pub called The Hare & Hounds. (Reference taken.) Secondly, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were all waiting outside, and every one of them had faces like brick walls. Something cold settled in his pit of his belly. 

“What?” Sherlock said, looking from face to face. 

Donovan and Anderson exchanged looks. Lestrade held up a hand. “Now look,” he said. “It’s a weird one. Might be a bit…” he trailed off.

“A bit what?” John wanted to know, voice gone tight, evidently picking up the tension. 

Lestrade sighed, glanced at Donovan. “Well, you’ll see.” To Sherlock, he added, “I didn’t realise yet, when I called…”

“Realise what?” He sounded impatient and knew it. 

“This one’s about you again.” Lestrade pointed up at the sign. “The Hare & Hounds. Reference to Henry Knight, that case at Baskerville, right? The glowing rabbit and the hallucinogenic dog.”

“Obviously, yes.”

“Then there’s the victim,” Lestrade said. “It’s a strange one, all right.” He hesitated, glanced at John. “I’m sorry,” he said, then turned and went into the restaurant. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked in an undertone as they hurried after him. 

Sherlock made no answer, ducking into the room. 

The victim lay facedown on the floor. He heard John’s sudden intake of breath from beside him. A male, approximately his own height. Difficult to see his clothing, because fanned wide over her back and legs was – Sherlock was almost certain, even from this distance – a Belstaff coat, Milford edition. A mop of dark curls (a wig?) obscured the face from this angle. 

“Fingerprints match,” Lestrade said quietly from behind him. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s Henry Knight.”

He heard John groan, and “Oh no, no!”

“I’m afraid so. DNA matches.” He must have signalled then; the medical team came forward and turned the body over. Lestrade went and knelt by the head, pulled back the hair. “It’s a wig. I just left it on for you to see.” He nodded at someone else and an assistant collected the wig and sealed it in an evidence bag. 

Sherlock’s mind had gone momentarily vacant, staring down at Henry. He’d solved that one, solved the puzzle and delivered Henry from his lifelong nightmare. And now, because of him, someone had killed him and dressed him to look like Sherlock. John was kneeling beside the body; Sherlock was frozen to the spot he was standing on. “How did he die?” he heard himself ask, wooden. 

“Please say it wasn’t anything horrible,” John said, not looking at Lestrade. “I don’t even see any signs.”

“Poison, or some kind of injection, the coroner said,” Lestrade responded, to John. “Puncture wound at the left shoulder.” He straightened up and went to talk to someone on the other side of the pub. 

Left shoulder – could even that be a reference? (To John?) A chill came over him. “We’ll go with the body to Bart’s. I’ll want the autopsy results,” he said, in that same dry voice. “John – ”

John glanced up, frowned, then stood up and came to him, put a hand on his arm. “You all right?” he asked gently. 

“Fine.” He was still staring at the body. 

“You don’t look fine. And I understand.” John’s other hand was other his other arm now, steadying him. 

“Thought you’d be flattered, freak,” Donovan said from the doorway. “Seems like it’d be right up your alley, someone committing crimes just to get your attention, even dressing their victims like you.”

He felt John’s hands tighten dangerously on his arms. “Don’t,” Sherlock said, brusque. “It’s not worth it.”

John’s face was a mutiny. “You should let me,” he said, jaw clenched. 

Suddenly it was all too much. He needed air. Space. Needed to leave this bloody pub. Donovan was directly in his exit path, and when he turned he saw that Anderson was hanging behind her like a shadow. Sherlock drew himself up. “Come on, John.” He set his mouth and walked toward the door. Donovan’s stance went defensive. She was not going to let him pass. 

“Where do you think you’re going, freak? You haven’t even done anything yet.” Her eyes were wide, mocking. She never thought he contributed anything useful, even after dozens of cases, probably still believed he’d kidnapped those children and tried to kill them. His rage came to a boil. 

“Get out of my way,” he demanded, teeth clenched. 

Insolent eyes met his. “You think it’s enough to come in, glance at the body, and have a little cuddle with Watson? You’re not finished here.”

“I’m finished when I say I’m finished. I do not work for you.” Vitriol burning in his mouth, his eyes cut to Anderson. “Has she told you yet?”

“Told me what?” Anderson asked, as petulant as ever. How Lestrade managed to survive these two petty, stupid, incompetent morons was beyond him. 

Sherlock gave Donovan his nastiest look. “She’s pregnant. And it isn’t yours. She’s been trying to hide it from you for weeks.” He shouldered his way past Donovan, taking immense satisfaction in the look of shock on her face, followed rapidly by the duel looks of shock and anger on Anderson’s, and swept down the stairs, down the street, away from all of them. 

He didn’t have to look to know that John was with him, radiating concern and other emotions and at the moment, he didn’t even think he wanted John there. He was close to a complete loss of control, and if that was going to happen, he would much rather John not be there to witness it. 

Perhaps John sensed this, because he wasn’t trying to talk, neither to reproach him for his outburst, nor to attempt to console him about Henry. When they reached the corner, Sherlock kept walking but John caught him by the arm. “Red light,” he said. 

Sherlock yanked his arm away. “What does that _matter_?”

“I don’t want you to get hit by a car, that’s all,” John said, in that tone of voice he used when Sherlock was being particularly difficult about something, a little too patient. He raised an arm and waved. “Taxi!” A cab slowed and they got in. “221B Baker Street,” John directed. 

Sherlock slumped into the corner of the back seat. “The morgue,” he said. “I said I’d go to the morgue.”

“The body is still at the pub,” John said, keeping his voice down for the driver’s benefit, still using his Reasonable John voice. “It’s going to take them awhile to do the autopsy, there’s no point in us going over there until they’ve finished. Unless you just want to take a few minutes and go back to the crime scene.”

He stared out the window. “There’s no point. He wasn’t killed there, and the killer won’t have left any clues behind.”

“Right. I suppose he just chose the location for the name, then?”

“I assume so.”

“Then we might as well go back home,” John said. Without noticing what he’d said. 

Something unclenched in his chest, though only very slightly. “Home,” Sherlock said. 

“What?”

Could feel John looking at him. “You said ‘home’.”

“You know what I mean. Baker Street.” John was being careful, touching him only with his eyes. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the window, seeing nothing. (Ocular stimulation not registering; no observations forming.)

“I’m sorry about Henry,” John said, very softly. “That poor man. And after you saved him.”

Something hard formed in his throat. He pulled out his phone and said, “I’ll text Lestrade. Tell him we’ll go to the morgue after.”

John watched him for a long moment, then just said, “All right. Yes. We’ll go later, when it’s done.”

***

At the flat, Sherlock decided to take a shower, if only because he simply needed some space to collect himself. He didn’t want John to leave, and John understood. Spotted his book and made pleased noises about it, sat down in his chair and opened it at the page where he’d dog-eared him years earlier. Tactfully left Sherlock alone without actually leaving him alone. 

The shower helped. His thoughts cleared, his emotions settled. It really was a pity, about Henry Knight. He wondered if Henry had been in London for some reason, or if Moran had gone all the way out to Dartmoor just to do that. He could have killed anyone and dressed them like Sherlock, but he’d gone to all the trouble of finding Henry Knight, just to get under his skin. The level of maliciousness spoke of Moriarty. Apparently he’d instructed his right hand man well. The left shoulder puncture wound bothered him enormously. If that was a not-so-subtle threat to John, to where he’d been shot in Afghanistan, then they were both in danger. Perhaps a text to Mycroft was in order, after all. But why all the taunting? Why not just attack them at any point?

Revenge. He understood. Psychological torture first. Moran and his gang would slowly build up the fear until he was paranoid and jumpy, and then they would attack. They would kill John first, and make Sherlock watch. And then they would kill him. Mycroft had given him a copy of the file on Moran, such as it was. He’d started out in the IRA, like any proper North Irish paramilitary with aspirations at greatness, kneecapped his way up the ranks until someone suggested an official military career. He’d been stationed in India for most of his life, was almost old enough to have been Moriarty’s father. A tough, fearless, ruthless killer. Mycroft didn’t know how Moran had come to be in Moriarty’s service, but surely it was for the money. Perhaps respect for Moriarty’s calculating mind. Yes, that fit: the mind and the muscle. Moran had been holding the rifle that day, at the pool. Well. One of the rifles, he revised. The one he’d dared point at John. 

The shower had worked: he was thinking clearly again. He turned off the water and stepped out, towelled himself off and put on the blue silk robe. 

John was exactly where he’d left him, still reading. He’d made tea. He looked up and smiled briefly. “You cleaned the teapot,” he said, as though he still lived and made tea there and was routinely upset about the heap of sodden leaves at the bottom of their teapot. Nonetheless, he was pleased that John had noticed and seemed happy about it. 

“I did,” Sherlock said. 

“Do you want some tea?”

“Maybe later,” Sherlock said, letting a curl of suggestion drift into his tone. 

John’s eyes travelled down the length of his body, finger holding his place in the book. “You wearing anything under that?” he asked, as though out of idle curiosity, but there was something more beneath it. 

The autopsy would take at least three hours. Sherlock smiled, untied the sash and dropped the robe to the floor in answer. Somehow, being nude in front of someone else had everything to do with how that someone was currently looking at you. He felt naked, but not exposed this time. Interesting, that difference. He’d have to give it some serious thought sometime. 

John’s eyes had gone wide. He stared for a long moment, then looked hastily at the door to the hallway, forgetting that he’d already closed it on their way in. 

“Just going to sit there?” Sherlock asked archly, and turned and went into the bedroom. 

John was already unbuttoning his shirt, pushing the bedroom door closed, eyes devouring Sherlock as he hastened to rid himself of his clothes. 

Sherlock lay on his side on top of the blankets and held John’s gaze, felt his cock begin to harden as he watched John undress. Could see that John was already getting there, erection bobbing in front of him as he wrestled off his socks and climbed onto the bed and over to Sherlock. They faced each other, legs winding around each other’s and this time it didn’t matter who made the first move, initiated a lead; their mouths were tangling, bodies moving against each other’s, erections bumping, sending jolts of electricity through Sherlock body. 

“You’re warm,” John murmured. “All warm from the shower.”

Sherlock pressed a thumb into one of John’s nipples, pleased by John’s gasping reaction. “That’s what I always think about you. You’re always warm.”

“Too warm, apparently. People complain, sometimes. Say I give off too much heat,” John said, moving a hand over Sherlock’s side down to his bony hip, as warm as always.

“I like it.” He mouthed at John’s throat, then tried pressing his tongue into it to see what sort of effect that would produce. (Very positive. Good.) Something had shifted and now he didn’t feel as hesitant to try, to explore. John seemed more than receptive, and he was curious (and wanted: want had outweighed uncertainty at last). He moved a little, to try a tongue on John’s nipple instead and was rewarded by some very pleasing sounds, one of John’s hands tangling into his wet hair, hips bucking into Sherlock’s belly. “You like that,” Sherlock said, confirming. 

“Yeah – yeah, that’s nice,” John said, eyes closed, swallowing. “You can – you can do as much of that as you want.”

Sherlock pushed John’s shoulder back into the bed, onto his back, to better explore and touch, now that permission had been officially and freely given. He could feel his eyes gleaming, taking in this compact, treasured, fiercely protected, beloved form in front of him. He lay on John and touched his throat, the scar on his shoulder (never again, could never allow John to be shot again). Tried his tongue on the other nipple (John shivered, twisted under him.) John’s hands were holding his upper arms, stroking them, touching his wet hair, just allowing him to do as he liked. This feeling of permissiveness was new and he found himself liking it very much. He licked at John’s ribs and got a breathy laugh with an apologetic _ticklish, sorry_ , traced the line of John’s navel, tongue encountering soft golden hair. He looked up to find John watching him, felt John’s interest conveyed even more directly by the cock now knocking into Sherlock’s chest. He had felt hesitant about trying this, but with John’s eyes communicating encouragement and permission and desire like this… Sherlock shifted down, his own cock trapped between the blankets and his body, and had a good, long look at John’s cock. 

“Are you just going to look at it?” John asked after a minute, voice a little strained. “If anyone could _look_ me into an orgasm, it would definitely be you, but…”

In answer, Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s and put his lips around the head of his cock, holding it steady at the base. John’s reaction was immediate and extremely gratifying, a long moan, his mouth opening, but not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s. He remembered that John had used his tongue to slide along the underside of his cock when he’d done this in that alley, and tried the same thing, keeping his lips tight, seeing how far he could take it. He remembered grabbing John’s head and pushing himself down his throat, fucking it as he came, remembered how John had just allowed him to do that. Now, with his throat already open wide and John’s cock not even touching it, he hoped he wouldn’t gag. He should have tried this first on something else. 

John was talking, eyes closing. “Jesus, Sherlock, that’s – that’s amazing, you’re bloody amazing at this – ”

Perhaps it was going to be all right. Buoyed by John’s praise, he moved his mouth back to the head, remembering how good that had felt, rubbed it with his tongue. Remembered his hands and stoked the rest of John’s cock, reached up with the other to touch his right nipple again (he had responded ever so slightly more to the right than to the left), worked his tongue around the head again and then dipped his mouth down again. 

John was cursing, writhing under him, praise tumbling over his lips, babbling. It was incredibly arousing. Sherlock noticed that he was rubbing himself against the blankets as he did this, caressed John with his lips and tongue and hands while John moaned, words disintegrating. As his own desire mounted, he increased the pace, going a little deeper, taking John’s cock a little further into his mouth, tongue stronger now, getting accustomed to it, hand squeezing. John arched up, teeth gritting. “Sherlock – ” It was the only warning he gave and instinctively Sherlock decided to just try it, sank his mouth down to John’s body, willing his throat to relax and allow John’s cock inside. John gave a shout, body pumping up once, hard, both hands on the back of Sherlock’s head, and then his cock was convulsing in his mouth and throat, his throat trying to swallow, filled with liquid, tried to breathe through his nose but his soft palate was lifted too high – his vision swam but then John’s hands were relaxing, releasing him. He swallowed, swallowed again, inhaled hard, gasping. The lack of oxygen did something that made the blankets feel even more ridiculously sensual than they should have, all of his senses heightened. 

John opened his eyes, pupils filling his irises and he pushed himself into a sitting position, looking dazed. “Come here,” he said roughly, and Sherlock understood. 

He shifted forward, straddling John’s hips, keeping one hand behind him on John’s cock, stroking it through the last of its release. Closed his eyes in utter ecstasy as John’s mouth enveloped him. “Already close,” he said, breathing hard, warning, but John just seemed to take that as incentive. He was gripping Sherlock by both arse cheeks, which felt better than it had any right to, and plunging his mouth down over Sherlock’s jerking cock repeatedly. He thought he could feel every taste bud on John’s tongue, the softness of the insides of his cheeks, the walls of his throat, John’s nose buried in Sherlock’s skin. He couldn’t even make his mouth form words as the orgasm rushed blindingly down upon him, spreading like a flush through his torso and out his cock. Heard his breath force itself from his lungs in an extended _Haaaaaaaahhh –_ of release, felt his cock being squeezed by John’s contracting throat, tongue cupping him, lips tightening as he spent himself directly into John’s esophagus. Secondary waves were shuddering through him and John accepted it all, swallowing around him. 

Finally, he pulled himself gently from John’s mouth and sank down on him, boneless, lips finding John’s. John wound his arms around Sherlock’s back as they kissed, and he suddenly knew that he had never been this close to another person in all his life. And that it was all right, after all. Because it was John. He should say something. (Oxytocin. He knew. Warning unnecessary.) “That day in the taxi,” he said, voice coming out in a rasp. He hadn’t anticipated that (though he really should have). “I knew then.”

John opened his eyes. “What’s that?”

“I knew then,” Sherlock repeated. “After my deduction. When you said it was amazing. I didn’t know that I knew then. But if I think back now, that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?” John asked. His hands were steady on Sherlock’s back. No panic. No uncertainty. And John had already said it, more than once: reassurance given. Time to give it back, counter-balance. That was the way the universe worked: measure and counter-measure. John had always given, rarely asked. Sometimes he would get grumpy about tiny, inconsequential things like the dishes and who paid for taxis, but he never asked for help or support, never complained (much) when Sherlock ordered him around, and had even forgiven him the unforgiveable act of having staged his own death and disappeared for three years. Even if it had been for John’s safety, John had suffered, yet John had forgiven him, had even come after him the day he threatened to leave again. And had told Sherlock that he loved him. Time to right the balance at last. 

“That I loved you,” Sherlock said.


	10. The Confrontation/The Apple

**Chapter Ten: The Confrontation/The Apple**

 

Sherlock woke slowly, feeling sunlight on his face a warm body draped partially over his. (John. Of course.) The smile smiled itself without any direction from him. Radiating heat like a furnace, but that was quite all right. He’d been cold for years. 

Something in his breathing must have shifted, because John was waking, his short eyelashes brushing ticklishly against Sherlock’s chest. He stretched and yawned, put his head back down on Sherlock’s chest again. “You awake?” It was muffled, half obstructed by Sherlock’s chest. 

“Yes. Hello.”

For some reason, this made John laugh. “Hi,” he said. His eyes had closed again, but the thumb on Sherlock’s chest was stroking lightly, mouth skating a half-formed kiss over his skin. 

He watched John, thinking he’d almost never seen him look so relaxed. So many small things to still discover about a person. That time, after they’d chased Jefferson Hope’s cab through back alleys and over rooftops, their first case, after Sherlock had discovered that the passenger could not possibly be the killer. The way John had laughed, suddenly and spontaneously, a completely different side of his character than Sherlock had seen so far. He’d liked it. Wondered what he could do to provoke it again, but he’d had no idea, then. Wondered how much more an idea he had now. 

“Are you watching me?” John’s eyes were still closed, mouth still mumbling into his skin. 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. 

“I can feel it, you know.”

“Can you.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What else can you feel?” He let an edge of something come into his voice. Perhaps John was too sleepy. 

John lifted his head and looked at him, challenged understood and accepted, the light of it glinting in his eyes. Oh. (Not too sleepy, then.) John grinned. (Definitely not.)

(He could get seriously used to this.)

***

After, they showered and made breakfast and retired to the sofa, Sherlock sitting down to read his email on his phone until John came and planted himself next to him, holding the paper. “You can keep doing that,” he said, nodding at Sherlock’s phone. 

Sherlock shifted, turning sideways and winding a leg behind John’s back, pulled John back against him, John’s back against his chest. “Anything interesting in the paper?” he asked in John’s ear, his voice deliberately low for once. (John liked it when his voice was pitched lower. He’d deduced that much.) 

John shivered responsively and leaned into him, body relaxed and easy. His legs were cradled in Sherlock’s on the worn leather, tangled together, Sherlock’s left arm draped across his chest. “As if I can concentrate on anything like this,” John said, teasing. Playful. 

In answer Sherlock nipped at his ear and purred, “Try.”

John giggled and turned a page. Then, in a different tone, “Oh. They’ve reported the murder.”

“I saw it on the BBC site.” Sherlock craned his head over John’s shoulder. “Did they say anything about the poison?”

“Just what Molly said last night, at the morgue. An overdose of a hallucinogen of unknown origin.”

“Lestrade thought it might be something the IRA used to use, years ago.”

“I know.” John didn’t remind him that he’d been there when Lestrade had called, or that Sherlock had put the call on speaker. His hand pressed against Sherlock’s on his chest. “You do think it’s Moran, then.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to talk about it.” John said, testing. 

“No. I want to talk about Mary,” Sherlock said, abruptly changing subjects. 

Slight tensing. A longish pause. “You want to talk about Mary,” John repeated. “Now. With me… lying in your arms.”

“Yes.”

“You know, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say her name,” John said. He didn’t sound angry, just a bit surprised. He exhaled deeply and leaned his head back on Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Is that why you wanted to sit this way? So you don’t have to look me in the face while we talk about the wife that I’m cheating on with you?”

(Surprisingly insightful. Touch of pride. He _had_ taught John something, after all.) “Yes.” He turned his face and pressed a kiss into the corner of John’s clean, firm jaw line. (Had always liked that jaw line rather inordinately.) “And I can see your face from here.”

John let the newspaper fall to his lap. “What do you want to know?”

He managed to wedge his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown without knocking them both off the sofa so that he could get both arms around John. “Everything. From the beginning. How did you meet her?”

“Why do you want to know this?” John asked. (Angry? No. Mild curiosity. Confirm?) “I mean, I don’t mind telling you, but normally it’s sort of a taboo subject. I’m just curious, is all.”

(Confirmation.) Sherlock chose his words with some care. “I am… having some thoughts,” he said. “I require more information. If it wouldn’t bother you to talk about it, I would very much like to know.”

John moved the paper to the floor and put his hands on Sherlock’s forearms. “I thought it might bother you to hear,” he said. 

“It might,” he admitted. “But I need to know.”

“Just for your own… curiosity, then?”

Debate. “Not exactly,” Sherlock said cautiously. “I’ll tell you more later. When I know more.”

John thought a minute, shifted a little to get comfortable, then said, “She was a patient, actually. She’d had a minor laceration on her upper coat, said she’d accidentally walked by a nail. I had to test for blood poisoning, give her a tetanus shot, all that, but she was fine.”

“Had she made an appointment?”

“Yes, actually,” John said. 

“I wonder how long before.”

“It was a real cut, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. So, you treated her, then asked her out, did you?”

John’s shoulder twitched a bit. “It was the last appointment of the day,” he said, defensive. “She was flirting, openly. She was pretty. So yeah, I asked her if she had plans for dinner.”

“She chose the restaurant.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Christ, were you _there_?”

He said nothing at first. He touched the space behind John’s ear with his nose and mouth. “Yes.”

John relaxed again, as though this small gesture had reconfirmed something for him. His thumbs stroked over Sherlock’s forearms on his chest. “It escalated pretty quickly. I mean, we were engaged three months later.”

“Tell me more about the escalation.”

“What, like details?” 

“Yes.”

“All right,” John said dubiously. “If you’re sure you want to hear this… well, that first date, I wasn’t going to kiss her, but she went for it, so, I mean, of course I kissed back. She seemed nice, really nice, easy to talk to, interested in everything I said, it was…”

Sherlock waited for him to finish the sentence. When John didn’t resolve the trail-off, he prompted. “It was what?”

“Unusual,” John said. He sound a bit agitated, admitting it. “I’ve never really been the flashy sort, have I. Granted, I did a good bit of partying back at uni, St. Bart’s and all that, with Stamford and the rest, so then it’s easy enough to meet people, but in terms of relationships, the women who went for me picked me because I was nice and reliable and decent, not because I was the hottest thing in the room.”

Sherlock touched his nose to that same place behind John’s ear and spoke into it. “Go on.”

He could feel John’s shoulders trying to shrug. “So, it was enormously flattering that she seemed so taken by me. Honestly, apart from you, no one else has ever actively wanted to spend that much time with me before. And you were gone,” he added. “And I thought you were never coming back.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound at this. He understood, more or less, but he still didn’t have to like it. 

“I wish I had known,” John said fervently. “I really wish I had.”

Sherlock thought about this for a long time. He didn’t know what would have been different if he had re-emerged into normal life pre-Mary, if John could have fallen into his arms at first glance. They had never been like this before. He didn’t even know if he would have come to be aware of this, of having these emotions. He should say something, though. “But I did come back,” he said, not sure if he was trying to defend himself or reassure John or what, precisely. 

John turned his head, trying to look at him. “You did,” he said. “You came back and threw the biggest wrench into everything, turned everything upside down. And I’m not complaining. I’m just so grateful to have you again. And like this.”

They weren’t really done talking about this, but Sherlock bent his head and found John’s mouth. From this angle, kissing was a slight challenge (hardly insurmountable: irrelevant) but it was absurdly easy to rub his hands over John’s torso, which was inhaling deeply, moving in rhythm with John’s tongue pressing into his. Easy to cup his hands around John’s cock through the pyjama pants he was wearing under his dressing gown, touching it through the thin, warm fabric. John was groaning into his mouth, lifting unashamedly into the touch, Sherlock’s name on his thin lips. “More,” John managed, and, “please, Sher – more – ”

Sherlock put his hand in the right pocket of his dressing gown and withdrew a small tube. He got the lid off in a second, squeezed a little onto his fingers and tossed the tube onto the coffee table. He slipped his hands beneath the waistband of John’s pyjamas, then on second thought, pushed them down in the back, over John’s firm thighs, and John kicked them off. Pinned beneath Sherlock’s arms, he couldn’t move all that much, so he seemed to have decided to just rub his hands along Sherlock’s thighs as Sherlock’s hands began to stroke him in long, smooth, unhurried caresses. From this angle, it was almost like doing it to himself, but he never made the noises that John was making (delicious, really; positively sinful). He thought of John’s unabashed praise and was momentarily amused by this unforeseen connection to his unabashed frankness when it came to sex. He quite liked it. And liked making John sound like that, experimenting, which noise would happen if he tugged lightly at John’s balls while the other hand squeezed up the shaft? What about when one hand kept that up while the other trailed through the golden fuzz near his navel, across his chest? John’s head was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes open, watching Sherlock’s hands in their travels across his body, his lips parted, tongue touching his lower lip. (Delicious pink tongue.) 

“Sherlock…” It was just a breath. “I can – I can feel you.” His hands on Sherlock’s thighs squeezed. “You could – you know – rub it against me, if you want to…”

(Consider.) (New territory.) His hands stopped momentarily, thinking. Then, “All right.”

John lifted himself and yanked at Sherlock’s pyjama pants (neither of them were wearing shirts under the dressing gowns) and with some difficulty, those came all the way off. While they were at it, Sherlock stripped the dressing gown off John, too, which got him a laugh. “Grabby,” John said, lying back against him again. 

It was delicious; he’d grown a rapid appetite for this thing which he’d all but sworn off, lived without for all his life without having particularly missed. Odd, how these things worked. His hands had gone immediately back to John’s cock as though they just belonged there (they did belong there). His own cock was rubbing into the smooth, firm dip between John’s arse cheeks, the very thought of which gave way to something else, something too primal to even put into articulated thoughts. Meanwhile, John was writhing in his arms, those complimentary things spilling over his lips like a small fountain of unadulterated praise. It was as much an aphrodisiac as John himself was. He nudged his knees under John’s, spreading his legs further open and let his left hand explore further, behind John’s balls. His fingers were still slick with lube and he wondered if John would protest if he tried this… he went slowly, calculating for potential protest time, fingers probing back. “All right?” he murmured in John’s ear. 

“Yeah.” John’s voice was breathy. (Aroused. Even more so.)

The thought functioned as a direct conduit to Sherlock’s arousal level. Moving his cock slowly up and down that firm ridge, his right hand on John’s cock, he slipped a long finger into John. Waited for the gentle pulsations to subside, pushed in a little further. John was splayed wide on his back, on top of him, legs sprawled over Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s hands on and in him. And he seemed to like it. Rather a lot, in fact. He moved the finger experimentally, added a second when John told him to, breathless, followed by _Jesus, Sherlock, where did you learn how to do this –_ He smiled, aware that John couldn’t see it, bit at his neck. “Some things are just – obvious,” he said, his voice gone all gravelly and low. 

“Is there – is there more of that?” John wanted to know, jerking a chin toward the coffee table. 

“There is…”

“Then – ” John’s eyes were tightly closed. “Then put some on your cock.”

For a moment he didn’t know what John meant, but then the implications became blindingly clear. “You’re sure – ”

“Sure,” John interrupted. 

“I just want to – ”

“Jesus, God, shut up and fuck me!” John ground out, cock twitching in Sherlock’s hands. 

His hips jerked upward, bolt of desire rendering him entire incapable of speech at this. He _loved_ John’s spurts of authoritarianism, even occasionally when they were directed at him. He was just barely able to reach the tube, fingers scrabbling over the coffee table for it. He ran some over his cock (hard as a ramrod since John’s command) and tossed it back on the floor. It was so easy, like this. He lifted John by the arse, spreading it, and slowly, jointly, John’s hot, _hot_ flesh was sinking onto him, John’s hands braced on Sherlock’s thighs. It felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, unbearably intimate, actually connected directly to another person’s body: John’s body. John’s intake of breath was sharp, and when his arse was touching Sherlock’s hip bones, he went still, breathing, adjusting. Sherlock could feel him, feel his body quivering, trying to accept this heretofore unknown intrusion. “Are you - all right?” he asked again, barely able to speak. He couldn’t even move; he would come. 

“Yeah – you can move a bit,” John said, eyes still closed. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, tried to hold both mind and body in check. From below John, he couldn’t actually move all that much anyway, but after a moment he began, and by lifting his hips and John shifting above him, they found a rhythm of small movements. Sherlock put one foot on the floor, trying to get more leverage. He’d thought John warm before, but the heat of him from within was intoxicating. He needed more, more room to move, and he needed a free hand to be able to touch John again. “Hang on,” he said, and, sunk root-deep into John, he held them firmly together and somehow managed to wrestle them around so that John was kneeling over the arm of the sofa, Sherlock half-standing and half-kneeling behind him. The movement made John moan; the shift had apparently done something – oh. Oh! He understood, angled upward a little, fingers probably bruising John’s hip where he gripped it, the other hand finally able to reach around to touch John again, his cock growing firmer again the instant Sherlock touched it. 

“You can go harder,” John rasped, getting the words out with difficulty. He was bracing himself on his left forearm on the arm of the sofa, the right grasping Sherlock’s over his cock. 

After that, it was all a blur. He started moving in earnest, his torso curved over John’s back, hips pumping forward in a steadily increasing rhythm. John was gasping, words left behind, and suddenly it needed to be even more. Like the other times, his control snapped suddenly, unable to hold back. His hips were slamming into John’s arse at a punishing speed, fingers clenching around John’s cock with abandon, the slide of the lubricant hot under his fingers, and then John was shouting something (his name, he remembered later), and his breath and blood and very brain seemed to flood from his body and into John’s in throbbing waves that made his head pound like a train speeding through his body, out his cock. John’s body was convulsing in his hands, his smaller hand gripping Sherlock’s hard enough to break his fingers for a prolonged moment, and then he relaxed, still moving Sherlock’s fingers, which had gone inexplicably limp, over his flesh, more come erupting in pulses over their fingers. 

“God, Sherlock…” John’s mouth was open, eyes closed, tongue touching the air. His left arm was trembling. “That was… incredible.”

Sherlock waited for his breath to catch up, his heart pounding, vision clearing, then pulled himself out of John, pulled them both back onto the sofa into the position they’d started in. John was completely nude, Sherlock still in his blue silk dressing gown. John’s back heaving against his chest, Sherlock pulled John’s dressing gown off the floor and draped it over them both. His legs had gone limp, too, but his arms were around John, one over his shoulders, the other around his chest. “It was, rather,” he said, in answer to John’s assessment. 

John turned his face and kissed Sherlock for a long time, his tongue and lips on Sherlock’s tangible evidence of his love. _Love_. He’d never felt so loved before. John loved him. It was practically a fact. “You love me,” he said, lips still touching John’s. Just to confirm. Wanting to hear it again. 

“Yeah,” John said, smiling. “Excellent deduction. I love you.”

The phone in Sherlock’s pocket rang. 

“Ignore it,” John said, eyes closing. “It’s not important.”

“I know.” He wanted to answer it, but surely it could wait. Besides, he preferred to text, anyway. He turned his attentions back to John’s mouth. Kissing was much more important than some things. (Amend: most things.)

It pinged. A text. John made a constrained sound into his mouth. (Amazing how he could curse without actually saying words.) John’s bare foot was moving gently over the top of his longer foot. It felt nice. This was nice, this lying here in the after part. He hadn’t known it could be this nice. (Nice: not a strong enough word. More than nice. Significantly more than nice.) Case aside, he could really do this all day. And then all night. Forever. (Oxytocin warning. Ignore.)

There was a creak outside the door, and then it slowly glided inward. 

“The door was unlocked,” Mary said, her face stricken. 

***

They both froze, then John was sitting up, scrambling for clothes, reaching for the pyjamas, shoving his arms into the sleeves of the dressing gown. Sherlock pulled his own dressing gown around himself and stood up, the jolt of adrenaline battling the feeling of lassitude in his muscles. He hadn’t heard her footsteps on the stairs. 

Mary stood framed in the doorway, dressed smartly but badly, per her usual style: rose Chanel skirt tailored so that it fell just three centimetres too low, ruffled white blouse pulling at the buttons and seams, ill-fitting _and_ too tight. Nude pumps, such a dull choice. An expression of shock and hurt was arranged perfectly on her pristine features, though Sherlock thought he could detect something more calculating below it. It was an act. Her small mouth was open, blue eyes wide, darting from John to Sherlock and back to John. “John – ” she choked. 

John was red in the face, every muscle tensed. “Mary. What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. 

“What the hell am _I_ doing here?” she repeated, eyes going impossibly wider, terribly hurt. “John – I can’t believe you, can’t believe you would do this to me – and with _him_!”

“Now, look here,” John said, evidently doing his very best to do the impossible; that was, make a logical argument of self-defense without having a whole lot in the way of socially-accepted moral ground upon which to build a case. “I – ”

“You _what_?” Mary’s cheeks were flushed, lip quivering. “I told you he was a bad influence, and apparently I was right! Not two months into our marriage, and you’re not only having an affair, but with a man – _this_ man, the one you said was just your friend, miraculously back from the dead. The one you said wasn’t taking you away from me with this childish case-solving business, the one you would drop your job for, drop _me_ for the instant he texted. The one you said _wasn’t_ a threat!”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” John said, face burning scarlet. “I didn’t – you weren’t supposed to find out this way, I was going to tell you, in a better way than this – ”

“I’d really like to see this ‘better’ way,” Mary threw back, tears welling in those China-blue eyes. 

“Well, obviously not like _this_ ,” John said, embarrassed, vaguely indicating his dressing gown, Sherlock, the room in general. 

“Not basking in the afterglow of the incredibly loud sex that the entire block heard?” Mary was stinging, the very portrait of unjustly treated innocence. 

John was abashed. “You – you heard that?” he asked, wincing. 

“I’d wager nearly all of London heard that!” Mary pulled a phone out of her purse and gestured with it. “I called you. Three times. When you didn’t answer, I came over. For all I know, you could have been hurt on one of these ridiculous adventures – don’t tell me you haven’t got hurt doing this before, John Watson, I read your old blog! So yes, of course I heard – from several houses away! And then I heard you tell him that you love him.”

The room went very quiet. Sherlock had been wondering if he should absent himself, but he wanted to stay partly to see what would happen, and partly because he’d thought he’d wait and see if John would say that he wanted Sherlock to go. (Perhaps John wanted his presence as support.) But now he couldn’t possibly leave without hearing John’s answer to this. 

Mary was watching John, waiting for his response. Sherlock found himself also watching John and waiting. John’s voice was very quiet. “I did say that,” he said, low. “And… I meant it. I’m sorry, Mary. I’ve loved Sherlock for a long time. And I thought I had lost him. I didn’t know, when we got married. I didn’t know then, not exactly.”

“And me?” Mary asked, very still. “You said that you loved me, too.”

“I – I thought I did,” John said lamely. “I did, in a way. Not this way. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Mary looked at Sherlock, eyes glinting in the daylight streaming in from the windows. “That’s the answer you wanted to hear, isn’t it?” she asked, voice steady. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. Though the words were still terribly new to his mouth and too unbearably private to share with the likes of her, he said them nonetheless. For John. In John’s defense. “I love John.”

“You love John?” Mary’s eyes narrowed. “The self-professed virgin, the man who doesn’t date, has, since that lunch we all had just a couple of weeks ago, suddenly discovered that he is capable of love after all? With my husband. How convenient.”

“Mary,” John tried, deprecatingly. 

She ignored him, eyes pinned on Sherlock like two blue laser sights. “Was it because I told you John wasn’t gay? Did you take that as a challenge?”

He didn’t know what to say to this, but it made him angry. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course not.”

“No – but you hated me, didn’t you,” Mary retorted. “Hated me for taking away your best friend, so you set out from the first to destroy our marriage.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said. If John hadn’t been there, he would have added, _You did that by seducing him and then tearing his self-esteem to bits by ridiculing him in bed_. However, John _was_ there, so he bit the words back. (Did not want to hurt John further.) “In fact, I was aware of the fact that my presence in John’s life might have been causing problems, and I suggested that perhaps John stop assisting me on cases.”

“Sherlock,” John said, sounding a little embarrassed, without looking at him. 

(What? This he did not understand.) “It’s true,” he insisted, looking at John. “I offered, and you were angry with me for making the offer.”

John sighed. “It is true,” he said, to Mary. “I lost Sherlock once and thought I couldn’t live without him, and the thought of losing him again is what made me realise that – that I would do anything to keep him. And that I loved him, but really, I had loved him for a long time.”

“That’s touching,” Mary said, her voice brittle, eyes brilliant with those unshed tears. “Really touching, John. Only I think you’ve made a bit of a bad investment here, with this one. I don’t believe for a second that this is _love_. He might have told you that, but this? This is manipulation. Remember how he refused to even meet me until just days before the wedding?”

“Yes, but – ” 

Mary cut him off, relentless. “The best man at our wedding, refusing to meet his best friend’s bride? That’s not only hurtful but dreadfully childish, don’t you think? If he had loved you, as your friend, he would naturally want to meet the person you’ve committed to spending the rest of your life with. He’s been hell-bent on making problems since the start, just to prove the point that no one could possibly take his friend away. You’re a fool, John. It’s not about love, it’s about winning this little contest.”

“You’re being really unfair,” John said, growing angry again. Twin spots of colour appeared in his cheeks. (Ruddy Scottish colouring coming out, as it always did when he was especially upset.) “This is about _me_ , how I feel, and you don’t know the first thing about Sherlock.”

“Really?” Mary was cool now, the tears receding. “I wonder, did you ever take my advice and ask Sherlock about your ring? Besides you and the jeweller and the priest, he’s the only one who’s ever touched it, as I recall. It seems a perfectly logical deduction to come to, don’t you think?” Her eyes cut to Sherlock, a flash of malice unmistakeably clear. 

“No,” John said. “Of course not. I wouldn’t insult him with the question.”

Only he very nearly had. Sherlock looked at Mary, corners of his mouth tight. “How interesting,” he said. “I hadn’t pegged you as someone interested in the art of deduction. I also find it curious, given that we both know where John’s ring is.”

“Do we?” Mary was very level, holding his gaze unflinchingly. 

“You do?” John was incredulous. “Sherlock – what – ?”

Without taking his eyes from Mary, he said, “Because you’re a good and respectful husband, John, I’m sure you’ve never gone through your wife’s lingerie drawer. I’d suggest starting there.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, well done,” she said in mock admiration. “The classic move: accuse the enemy of doing the very thing you’ve already done yourself.”

Sherlock felt the bridge of his nose crease. “What?”

Mary turned to John, an air of dramatic triumph in her every movement. “You can thank him later for giving you the precise location, _darling_ ,” she said. “John, dear, go and have a look in Sherlock’s drawers, if you wouldn’t mind. That should clear up this question of where your ring has been all this time.”

John hesitated, looked at Sherlock, who shrugged. He knew perfectly well where the ring was, or at least where it had been. Oh. _Oh_. Of course. Stupid, stupid. She’d accused him of doing the very thing she’d just done. He should have realised at once. His wits _were_ getting clouded by sentiment. (He’d known that would happen, inevitably.) But what could he do? She’d rather taken the wind out of his sails for making the counter-accusation. Might as well go through with this charade and hope (pray) that John had some manner of faith in him. Enough for this. 

At Sherlock’s shrug, John sighed. “Fine,” he said. He sounded stubborn. “Fine. I’ll go and look, and we can settle this once and for all.”

He went to the bedroom. Both Sherlock and Mary followed, crowded into the corridor. (Hated being so close to her.)

“Charming, this,” Mary said bitterly, eyes roving over the rumpled bed, lingering on John’s medical journal, the clothing littering the floor. “I hope you like the feeling of having been used as someone’s sex object, John. I could almost feel sorry for you right now.”

John’s jaw set and he didn’t respond to this. He went to the dresser and opened his sock drawer first, rummaged through it (did he honestly not know which drawer contained which garments?), closed it and opened the next drawer. His hands shifted garments, then stopped. From his face, Sherlock knew he had found it. (How Mary had planted it was what he did not know, but it was clear that she or someone else had.)

John slowly lifted the small box out of the drawer, eyes fixed on it. 

(Wait for John to say something first? Uncertain.) Sherlock’s heart was beating too quickly. “John…” he said. 

His phone rang. Of all times for his phone to ring. 

Mary’s eyes glittered. “You’d better get that,” she said, sweet. Dangerous. “It might be for a case.”

John was still looking at the box. Sherlock pulled out the phone and looked at it. Lestrade. Saw that he’d missed two other calls and a text from him already. “It’s Lestrade,” he said, for John’s benefit. He answered, mechanically keeping his voice steady. Emotionless. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ve been calling you, tried texting. Found something you need to see,” Lestrade’s voice came, grimmer than Sherlock had ever heard it. “Get over here. Get over here _now_.”

***

The cab was too quiet. John sat beside him, completely silent (though the fact that he’d come at all said quite a bit). There would be time to talk about this later, if John would give him time. He thought that he would. (Couldn’t be certain. That was the problem.) Surely John _knew_ , without proof, knew that everything he’d said and done had been exactly what it was, not some perverse game of Who's-Got-John, as though he and Mary were haggling for their pound of flesh, for the love and trust of this man who was always so ready to believe that he was unworthy of love and incapable of trust. He would say it again if John wanted to hear it, but this didn’t seem the moment. 

Lestrade had said nothing, given no details, just said he’d text the address and hung up. From his tone, though… 

Sherlock pulled out his phone. He’d nearly forgotten, with all of the John/Mary drama. (Mycroft had been right, damn him. He’d got distracted with John, and now…) He typed rapidly. (Angrily. Angry with himself, with Mary, with Mycroft.)

_Another crime scene. Suspect it could be related to Moran. Not sure if there’s another victim, Lestrade just said to meet him there. 27 Elswick Rd, Lewisham._

“Who are you texting?” John asked, eyes fixed on the window. 

“Mycroft.”

He could feel John’s head turning without looking. “Then it’s serious,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Moran?”

“I suspect so.” 

“You know I’m here with you. I’ve got your back,” John said, sounding more like he used to in the old days. Edge in his voice, adrenaline thrumming. But like a friend. Only a friend. His voice was tight, closed. 

He did not know what to say to make John sound like a lover again. No response from Mycroft so far. 

The taxi stopped on a dreary side street in Lewisham. Sherlock paid and they got out. This time, only Lestrade was waiting outside at the tape. He stood in the path, preventing them from going inside. “Now look,” he said, warning. “It might be a copycat or just a coincidence, but…”

“But what?” Sherlock asked, more sharply than he’d intended. (Note: adrenaline levels in himself also higher.) It made him impatient. (Worried. He was worried. He _must_ calm himself, distance himself.)

“First off, we think Henry Knight was killed here. You can have a look, but we definitely found blood that matches his type and a hair that we’ve sent to forensics for a DNA match. A neighbour called and said she’d heard some noise the other night, so we came round and had a good look, found the blood and a mobile registered to Henry’s name.”

“And second?” Sherlock was hardly breathing.

Lestrade shifted his weight. “You remember, when you got back from being not-dead-any-more,” he said. “You and your brother and I sat down and had a proper talk about everything that went on in the Moriarty/Rich Brook case. I mean, we’d got all the big stuff back after it all happened, but you know we never found the body, and I didn’t know about all that with the threats, the I.O.U. business and that until that meeting with your brother and you, right?”

“Of course I remember,” Sherlock said, watching him intently. “What’s happened? What else have you found?”

“Well,” Lestrade said, “either we’ve got ourselves someone else who somehow got wind of all those finer details, or Moriarty was working with someone. This Colonel Moran character, I’m thinking. You can go in, but it might be a bit of a shock.”

Sherlock glanced at John, who returned the look with grim concern, the lines around his mouth deepening. They followed Lestrade inside the darkened house.

Someone had turned on some light, old-fashioned wall-sconces for candles holding dim (25-watt) bulbs, flickering weakly. Besides the light, Sherlock’s first observation was that the room was strewn with apples. Perhaps thirty or forty of them, red, all the same variety. Impossible to tell exactly at this distance. Donovan, Anderson (who was on the opposite side of the room), and the coroner and his staff had formed a circle around a body laid out on the floor. “You didn’t say there’d been another murder,” John said to Lestrade, behind him. 

“There wasn’t,” Lestrade said, grim. “Àt least not recently, though it’s a bit difficult to say.”

Sherlock hardly heard them both. He walked forward, slowly, stepping around the apples, footsteps echoing on the dirty wooden floor. The very silence in the room was deafening. Everything registered slowly and precisely, as though his brain had gone into slow motion. A pungent scent of formaldehyde filled the room. The body was dressed expensively. Westwood, he thought fleetingly. Perhaps he _was_ in shock. It all felt very faraway. 

Sharp gasp of breath behind him. “Sherlock,” John said. Urgent. (Why urgent? He was dead. Wasn’t he?)

The skin was pale and grey, wet with formaldehyde. Shoes: Gucci. Skull detail on the silk tie. Hair styled immaculately. Dark eyes open, staring toward the ceiling. The face he’d seen in Dewer’s Hollow, in occasional dreams for the past four years. James Moriarty. And cradled in his perfectly arranged hands, an apple. 

Lestrade was beside him. Sherlock hadn’t heard him approaching. “We haven’t touched anything. Not yet.”

“How many people do you have here?” Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes from the body. 

Felt the sidelong look, the concern. “Just the usual. Are you saying we’ll need back-up?”

“Maybe. I texted Mycroft.” 

“Mycroft!” Lestrade shifted his weight, eyes on the side of Sherlock’s face, intent. “Are his people on the way, then?”

“No idea,” Sherlock said. He took another step forward, then another. 

“Sherlock…” John, warning. (Worried.)

He held an arm out without turning. “Stay back. Just in case. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“Sherlock – ” This time it was protesting, but John reluctantly obeyed. 

Sherlock knelt and turned his head sideways to look at the apple: yes. It was there, carved out with a knife: I.O.U. He picked it up by its stem, careful not to touch the hands, and straightened up, rotated it by the stem. The other side bore four letters, neatly spaced in two groups. S.H., J.W. His heart was beating in his throat. He turned toward John and Lestrade. 

“Well,” he said, “this is interesting.” And then everything registered three nanoseconds too late: the skin of the apple throbbing just once as he looked at it before there was abruptly no apple at all, the flesh exploding from its core faster than the mind could register, fire searing across his retinas as the blast screamed against his ear drums. He heard, as though from across a great distance, John’s voice shouting his name as everything went black.


	11. St. Bart's/Captain Arthur Morstan

**Chapter Eleven: St. Bart’s/Captain Arthur Morstan**

 

Sounds returned first, only they were broken into pieces. 

A woman’s voice, saying his name. Impersonal, a professional of some sort. The small, routine sounds made by an assortment of machines. Other female voices. Male voices. All vague, unfocused. Beeping. Regular, steady. An electrocardiogram. Understanding began to fade in; he was in the hospital. Which hospital? Impossible to say. Felt a steady pressure and warmth on his left hand, and a voice: male, terribly familiar, but he could not place it. 

Were his eyes closed? Yes. Possibly. (If so, why hadn’t he opened them?) He tried, but they were made of stone, wouldn’t move. The sounds receded into darkness again. 

Later, that familiar voice again, saying fragments of things. Only fragments. He was fragmented. His head was broken. His mind had dissolved in a frothing alkaline of sentiment. Couldn’t last. (Should have known.) 

“… thought he had almost woken up, there,” that voice was saying. Disappointment. He detected disappointment. 

“… have to remember, the shockwave…” Fade out, then, “…some damage, hopefully it’ll clear up when he wakes, and the burns…”

Burns? Who was burnt? “ – not leaving him,” the male voice was insisting. 

“… all right, said you could stay, doctor…”

The male voice subsiding again, steady warmth in his left hand. (Who was it? Why was he so upset? It seemed important, somehow.) He needed to see, needed to open his eyes, get his thoughts in order. Get information to think with, to think about. 

“Sherlock. I’m here,” the voice was saying again. Still more familiar. “It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.”

Touched tongue to the roof of his mouth, seeking moisture. Attempted to swallow. Movement wasn’t working. He could feel sheets (cheap, low thread-count: distasteful) under his right palm and it wouldn’t seem to lift away. “Where… am I?” (Was that his voice, that dry thing that sounded like dead leaves rustling together?”

“Sherlock!” There was relief in the voice and the pressure on his hand tightened. “Let me get you some water.” The pressure loosened, let go. 

He wanted to protest this, but his mouth was too dry. There was a hand, a strong, firm hand under his head, lifting it, the touch of glass on his lower lip. He was being fed water like some feeble, dying, broken thing. The water was heavenly. Some of it ran off his lip and down his neck, and those steady hands patted it away with the edge of the sheet. He tried blinking again, but the light was blinding and he decided he was fine with his eyes shut for the moment. 

“You’re in the hospital,” his companion said. “St. Bart’s. Tell me you remember it.”

“I… work here…”

That got a short laugh. “Sort of,” the other agreed, easily enough. “You do a lot of work here, at any rate. Can you open your eyes?”

“Too bright.”

“Ah. Yes. Are you in pain?”

Pain. He had not considered that. Now that he did, there was, in fact, rather a lot of it. “Face,” he said. (Feeble.) “Right arm. Head.”

“Head,” the voice repeated, worried. “I’ll call for the nurse. We’ll get you something.”

“Mmm.” The room went quiet again. Approaching footsteps, a low-voiced exchanged between his companion and the nurse, and then a wash of blissful numbness. 

“I’ll be here with you, Sherlock. Hang on.” Then, “… might have been too strong?” There might have been other words, a response, but it was drifting away. 

_Don’t go, John,_ he wanted to say, but the darkness washed over him again before he could. 

***

When he woke again, the warmth was still there on his hand but the pressure was gone. He blinked, pulled his eyelids apart. They felt dry and sticky as though he’d been asleep for days. Water. He wanted water. The room was dim, light coming in from the corridor, but none turned on in the room itself: night. It was night. He turned his head to the right and saw the glass of water on the tray beside him. He picked it up and carefully held it to his mouth. His head still hurt but no longer felt like a building had fallen on it. He drank nearly all of it, then dipped his fingers in the last bit and wet his eyes. It was blissful. (Ridiculous. Water in eyes should not feel quite so good.) 

He looked to his left, where John still had his hand. John: asleep with his face mashed against the rail of the bed so that he wouldn’t let Sherlock’s hand go as the morphine kept Sherlock asleep. John: here with him, in the dead of the night. Not at Mary’s, nor wearing his ring. The events came back in a rush. Monday: he had broken into Mary’s flat and seen the ring in her drawer. Monday afternoon he and John had gone to the crime scene in Stratham where Henry Knight’s body had been left. Monday night they had gone to the morgue to get the autopsy results and John had stayed over. Tuesday around noon, Mary had walked in, the ring somehow in Sherlock’s bedroom. (How had she managed that? When? He would have seen the ring himself when he’d dressed Tuesday morning if she’d come Monday night. Except that he hadn’t dressed after the shower, had he? Ah. That was part of it, then. She had assumed he wouldn’t, given John’s presence.) 

He wanted to wake John and talk to him. (Consideration: John didn’t look particularly comfortable. It would be kinder anyway.) “John,” he said, voice gravelly but functional. Just. John didn’t move. He tried again, a little louder, “John.”

John woke suddenly, breath starting, face lifting from the hard plastic bedrails. He blinked, eyes focusing, taking in the situation of a conscious Sherlock watching him and waiting. The waking process accelerated considerably. “You’re awake!”

Obviously. “What day is it?” 

Momentary pause. (Oh. Should he have said something else first?) “It’s… almost Thursday now,” John said, looking at a wall clock. “How are you feeling?”

He was going into doctor mode. Sherlock didn’t mind doctor mode particularly, especially not when he was its focus. He’d never minded letting John stitch him up or insist on putting plasters on him (he always took them off later, anyway) or icing various bruises and strained wrists and ankles. “All right,” he said. “I’m all right. Don’t fuss.” (Had to protest; that was part of the game. John would be disappointed otherwise.)

“I’m not fussing,” John said, stubborn as ever. He was standing, peering at Sherlock’s face. “How’s your jaw?”

“My jaw? It’s fine.” Sherlock touched his face, felt gauze on the right side of his jaw. “What happened?”

“You got blown up, sort of,” John said brusquely. “Good job it was a low pressure explosive. Black powder, Lestrade said. Could have been much worse.”

He was close, his face close to Sherlock’s, lifting the gauze to examine the burn on his jaw. “John…”

John glanced at him, jaw tightening. He said nothing. 

“I’m all right,” Sherlock said. (Was he trying to reassure John? Think. Yes.) 

“I know, but you might not have been,” John said, in that same, hard voice. He let his eyes stop on Sherlock’s again, then suddenly seemed to explode, himself. “Jesus, Sherlock, you could have _died_!” 

He was furious, Sherlock realised, nearly yelling but keeping his voice to a controlled level because it was, after all, a hospital at night time and the door was open. He put his left hand on John’s arm, close to the elbow. “I didn’t die,” he said. (Was there a note of pleading there?) _Please, don’t be angry, we’re both still here, still alive._ “John…”

John looked at him, mouth hard and set, lines around and between his eyes unusually deep. He looked tired and older than his age. For a moment he just stood there, half bent over Sherlock, obviously seething, breath coming hard through his nose. Then he bent and kissed Sherlock, not where Sherlock wanted, but just beside his mouth. Chastely. Then. “How’s your head?”

(Bugger his head. He wanted to be kissed properly, damn it.) “It’s fine.” Disappointment washed over him as John moved away, went back to his chair. Perhaps everything wasn’t all right after all. Perhaps John had just stayed with him because he was worried Sherlock had had the nerve to try dying again. Wanted to make him feel like things were all right just long enough to get him past the danger point. He turned his head to the right, away from John. Between the fatigue, what felt like the ebbing throbs of a concussion, and the aftermath of the morphine, it was very possible that he would not retain control. And if he was going to cry or something ridiculous like that, he certainly didn’t want John to see it. 

He heard John sigh, peripherally saw him rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It’s not quite five in the morning,” John said. “I haven’t slept since the bomb detonated. I need to clear my head. And we need to talk, and this isn’t the time.”

“We can talk,” Sherlock said. He sounded young and insecure again. (Hated that.)

“No, we can’t,” John said. “Not now. That wouldn’t be fair to you. Although some people would try it anyway.”

A minute or two went by. “Can we talk about something else, then?”

Pause. “What do you want to talk about?” He sounded tired. A bit impatient. 

“What happened?”

“Well,” John said, in that clipped, angry tone that Sherlock hated, “as you might have noticed, the apple was a bomb. Or a grenade or something, I suppose it was too small to be a proper bomb. Lestrade’s bomb squad think it must have been wired with voice recognition. Your voice, from a certain proximity.”

“Clever,” Sherlock murmured. “Go on. What happened after that?”

“After? You mean, after the smoke cleared and we found you on the floor in a pool of your own blood?” When Sherlock said nothing, John continued, still labouring to rein in his anger. “Half of MI6 turned up in helicopters and searched the premises, but they didn’t find anything. No trace of Moran.”

Sherlock felt his lips twitch in a half-smile. So Mycroft had come through, then. 

“I got myself thrown out of the crime scene, but that was fine because by then, the paramedics were loading you into the helicopter and you and I were flown here.”

“You got yourself thrown out of the crime scene?” Sherlock turned his head with caution to look at John. “What did you do?”

John’s lips quirked, almost smiling. “You _really_ pissed Donovan off, you realise. She and Anderson have split up, it seems.”

He felt his lips twitch vindictively. “Finally. I can’t believe it lasted that long as it is. That should take some of the smugness out of Anderson.”

“It was inevitable, it wasn’t your fault,” John conceded, as though he thought Sherlock might have actually been concerned that it was. (He wasn’t.) “But she went and said something really stupid and I sort of lost my temper.”

Interesting. “What did she say?”

John’s face clouded with anger again, but at least it wasn’t directed at him this time. He bent forward and looked off somewhere to the left, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh, you know. Just that it was a pity you hadn’t died once and for all this time. _Really_ pleasant. Really nice.”

Sherlock kept his on John, watching intently. “And you lost your temper?” (He liked this.)

John glanced at him. “I always said I’d never hit a woman,” he said, wry, “but apparently that doesn’t rule out slamming one into a wall in a choke hold in whatever bit of my brain made that particular decision. I don’t even remember if I said anything. Lestrade wasn’t too happy,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Told me he understood I was upset but to get out and calm myself down. Seemed like a good time to get in the helicopter, since there was one handy.”

He could picture it all vividly. (If only he could have witnessed that! How satisfying that would have been!) Suddenly he started to laugh, and once it started, he couldn’t stop. John looked at him, surprised, and then after a moment or two, he began to chuckle, too. It grew, bubbling into John’s lighter-pitched laugh, the one Sherlock had always liked so much. The moment passed, the laughter subsiding. Sherlock put his hand out, near the rails, toward John. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for doing that.”

“Not my _best_ moment,” John said. “But I can’t make myself feel sorry. She shouldn’t have said that. Not about you. Not about anyone.”

Sherlock waited. After another moment, John relented and put his hand on Sherlock’s upturned palm. Squeezed it. 

“You should get some more sleep,” he said. 

“I didn’t take your ring, you know.” Sherlock could feel the drowsiness tugging at him (receptive to suggestion?), but this was important. “John. You know I didn’t.”

John watched him, still holding his hand. Eyes very serious. 

Impatience. (Why this hesitation?) “I can prove it,” he added, more sharply than he should have. “I do have proof. But you’ve never doubted me before. Don’t start now. Please, John.”

John’s face softened a little, almost imperceptibly. “All right,” he said. “That’s a fair point. I’m just… it’s very strange, you know, having the two people you love both telling you different things. It’s hard to know who to trust. I believe you, though.”

Sherlock felt his lips tighten a little. “But you’d still want to see the proof.”

John looked at him for a long time, not speaking, just looking. Thinking. Then, “No. I don’t need to see the proof.”

“Now I want to prove it to you,” Sherlock said stubbornly. 

“You really don’t need to.”

“You have to let me. John. I can. I got the video footage from the reception,” Sherlock said, speaking quickly so that John couldn’t interrupt. “It’s grainy, but you can see the exact moment where Mary takes it from the table. You took it off and while a waiter was refilling your wineglass, she picked it up and put it down her dress. And I have proof that it was in her dresser drawer as of Monday afternoon of this week. I assume that she or someone else planted it in my dresser either Monday night while we were at the morgue or Tuesday morning while we were in the shower.”

John listened, his face open. (Receptive. Trusting? Uncertain.) “You were at the flat on Monday?”

“After what you said on Sunday, about the row you had with Mary about it, I knew I had to find it,” Sherlock said. “I suspected she had it since the night of the reception, only I couldn’t understand why.”

“And you definitely saw it there,” John said. “In her dresser drawer.”

“Top centre drawer.”

“But you see,” John said, “I can make the choice to believe you, which I have, but it still ends up being your word against the ring actually having been in your bedroom. I realise that someone must have put it there, but you do see that, right?”

“Pass me my phone.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know, actually.” Sherlock looked down at himself. He was wearing a hospital gown. (How humiliating. That would be changing, as soon as he’d ascertained whether or not he could move unassisted.) “It was in my coat pocket. Where is my coat?”

“In the closet. Let me get it. They probably turned it off, hospital and all.” John let go his hand and went to the closet. “It’s here,” he confirmed. “I’ll just turn it on.” He walked back. “Here.”

Sherlock waited for it to finish turning on, then scanned rapidly, held the phone out to John. “Here,” he said. “It’s dated.”

John took the phone, lips parting. “That’s… yeah, that’s her drawer,” he said. “And that’s the ring. You took a picture! That’s brilliant!”

Sherlock smiled. “A little trick I learned from an old friend.”

“‘Friend’?” John repeated, putting the phone back into Sherlock’s hand, eyebrows raised. 

Sherlock hesitated. (Was this a test?)“More than friend,” he amended. “The…” (Search for suitable term, something he could utter with actual dignity.) “… person I love,” he tried. “If he’ll still have me.” (Oh, God. It came out sounding both stiff and pathetic. Surely John would attribute it to the morphine.)

John smiled and looked properly like John again. (Relief.) “Yeah, I’d say that’s a safe bet,” he said, and he sounded properly like John again, too. He leaned over the rails, still smiling, and kissed Sherlock gently. 

Much better. Still – Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the back of John’s neck and tried to pull him closer, needing more of his mouth. (Needing confirmation.)

John made a surprised noise into his mouth, pulled away. “Hang on,” he said. He pushed a button and lowered the bedrails. “Much better.” He came back and finally kissed Sherlock properly, tongues and lips sliding together. (Confirmation given.) “It couldn’t ever just be simple with you, could it,” he said, mouth just above Sherlock’s. 

“That sounds dull,” Sherlock said.

Luckily, John found it funny. He laughed, that same spontaneous laugh he’d laughed after the taxi, that first time. (As he was meant to.) He remembered something, something he’d meant to say for awhile, but there had never been a time that seemed appropriate to say it. 

“John,” he said, not sure how to enunciate it, exactly.

“Mmm?” John pulled his face back a couple of inches. 

“Do you remember Rachel?”

John’s brow furrowed. “Our first case. Of course. The pink lady. Jennifer Wilson’s daughter.”

“Remember when everyone was talking about why she would have scratched her stillborn daughter’s name on the floor in her last moments, and Anderson and the rest thought I was an idiot for not understanding why she would have thought of her daughter as she was dying?” And in the silence that had ensued, he’d asked John, _Not good?_ and John had confirmed, _Bit not good, yeah_. It had been their beginning. 

“Yes,” John said. “I remember. What are you getting at?” He touched Sherlock’s forehead as though checking for a fever. (Why? Did fever make people nostalgic? Prone to bouts of reminiscence? More likely the morphine combined with the concussion and his resultant weakness.) His hand stayed on Sherlock’s forehead, thumb moving gently over it, fingers sliding into Sherlock’s hair. 

This was important. “I wasn’t wrong,” Sherlock said. “There was another reason, it was her password. Even so, I know you all thought I didn’t understand.”

“Okay,” John said, clearly not understanding where this was going. “But… now you do?”

He reached up to touch John’s face. “Remember, on the rooftop at St. Bart’s, the last thing I said?”

John went very still. “Not likely to forget that, am I.” His eyes were very blue. “You said, ‘Goodbye, John.’”

“You were not only the reason I had to die, but the last thing I thought of,” Sherlock said hoarsely. His throat must have gone dry again. Stupid. He tried clearing it. “I didn’t know if all the preparations would actually work. I didn’t know for certain that I would survive the fall. But when I thought it might be my last moment, it was you that I thought of. You were all that mattered.”

The corner of John’s mouth went strangely tight, eyebrows twitching. He blinked once, then several times more, briskly, cleared his throat. “Well.” Flash of smile, slightly forced. “I never thought I’d see it: Sherlock Holmes, finally understanding sentiment.”

“I do, you know.”

“I know you do.” John gave him a real smile, slow and lovely and heart-deep. “Let’s both get some sleep now.”

(Was that it? Did it need to be any more? Perhaps not.) “All right,” Sherlock said, giving in without argument. 

He’d hoped John would see it as more than it had sounded. It had been a profound revelation for him, after all. Perhaps the disappointment showed. John settled back into the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “I’ll be right here,” he promised. “We can talk some more in the morning. Later in the morning, rather. Go to sleep.”

He pretended to, just to mollify John. John was asleep within minutes, looking much more peaceful than he had before. Sherlock watched him until his head began to throb again and sleep slipped back over him like warm rain, gradually dissolving his consciousness into rivulets running over London cobblestones, draining away into the white light of dawn.

***

He woke much later; the light coming in from the windows to his left made that instantly obvious. Early afternoon, around one, he estimated. John was not in his chair. He lifted his head, looking for him. 

Oh. Wonderful. Splendid. Just what he needed. John was standing in the doorway, talking to Mycroft, both of them glancing in Sherlock’s direction. They both noticed that he was awake. John came over first; Mycroft stayed in the doorway, leaning as though the very boredom of being there was all but insupportable. 

John. Sherlock experienced a flash of appalled remembrance, everything he’d said the night before. Good God. Who had let him speak to anyone in that condition, least of all to John? He felt the flush creep along his cheekbones, the heat of humiliation spreading over his face. He didn’t know which was worse, having to face John after that heap of sodden romantic nonsense he’d spouted, the sort of self-revelation that laid a person so bare that it embarrassed both parties, or Mycroft. He considered rapidly, prioritising. 

Meanwhile, John was speaking, evidently. He hadn’t been paying attention. “… nurse said you’d be able to get up today. How’s your head?” He was smiling, affectionate, apparently unbothered. (Perhaps he was just being tactful in front of Mycroft. Yes, that was likely. John could be compassionate when he wanted to be.)

“John.” He kept his voice low, though Mycroft had an acute sense of hearing, both acoustic and electronic. 

John bent over him, still smiling but with a hint of crease between his eyes. “Yeah, what’s up? You all right?”

Sherlock spoke quickly, urgently, casting a dark glance toward the doorway. Mycroft appeared to be looking at his phone. “John, you’ve got to find my clothes. Don’t make me talk to Mycroft in only a hospital gown.”

John lowered his face and gave a snort of laughter through his nose. “You’re definitely recovering,” he said. He touched Sherlock’s hand briefly and retreated, going to the cupboard where they’d hung his coat. 

“Feeling better?” Mycroft said from the doorway, not looking up from his phone. He sounded as bored as he looked. 

“For God’s sake, Mycroft, go away and let me get dressed before the interrogation starts,” Sherlock snapped. 

He’d sort of expected recrimination, but Mycroft merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back in five minutes. I have no desire to see you with your arse hanging out, regardless. I believe that would be John’s territory.” He smirked and walked out. (Damn the man.)

“That was a _tad_ harsh,” John commented, coming back with an armful of clothes. “He did come to see you, you know.”

“He just wants to grill me about the crime scene and the bomb and the rest,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“Need a hand?” John asked, helping him sit up. 

Sherlock moved carefully, but the spinning in his head had faded considerably. He was attached to the machines. That wouldn’t do at all. He detached the IV drip, realised with momentary horror what the drip implied: yes, they’d had him catheterised. “Possibly with…” he indicated, somewhat embarrassed. Obviously John had dealt with catheters before, but they were hardly bound to make him appear more attractive. 

“With… ah.” John’s tone was all tact. “You’re fine with ripping out your IV like that, but you’d rather let a professional handle that one, would you?” He gave Sherlock a smile that was only innocent on the surface. When Sherlock didn’t answer him, he added, “Well, you’re in luck. I just happen to be trained at this _and_ familiar with the subject in question. Let me just wash my hands.”

Sherlock watched him walk to the sink and back in silence. If Mycroft had been here for _this_ …

John was there again, hands as gentle as could be. “All right,” he said, as though soothing a child. “Let’s just… there we are. You’ll probably want to visit the loo about now. Let me help you, you’ll be a bit dizzy at first.”

He helped Sherlock into a sitting position, eased him upright and walked him to the toilet, stayed in the doorway. (In case Sherlock fell over, or so he said, but Sherlock noticed that he also watched him relieve himself. Interesting, that.) “Clothes,” Sherlock said. 

John brought them over and helped him dress, like a child, easing the shirt sleeve over the gauze dressing, then doing up the buttons for him (one he’d brought from Baker Street; he’d said that the blue one Sherlock had been wearing when the blast went off was being cleaned). He did up the last button (or rather, the highest one that Sherlock would let him button, batting his fingers away). John snickered and leaned up to kiss him lightly. “Back to bed with you,” he said, in that doctor-voice-brook-no-refusal.

He’d learned that John could not be budged when he was using that particular stubborn tone. Best pretend to just accept it, then. He allowed himself to be propelled back to the bed, where he insisted that John put his socks and shoes on (if he wanted to fuss, he might as well make himself useful), adjusted the bed into a sitting position and only then consented to get back into it. He even let John drape a sheet across his lap. 

“I reckon your five minutes are about up,” John said. “Listen, I’m just going to sort a few things out, all right? Since you’re awake – and by the way, it was a pretty big relief that you _did_ wake up so quickly, relatively speaking. Going into a coma after a concussion like yours is dangerous. But since you _are_ awake now, I just need to go back to – to Mary’s and deal with all that. Get my things. You know.”

Sherlock studied his face. So he hadn’t put John off the night before with his soppy ramblings. Rachel and all of that. He thought he knew what John was saying, but… important to confirm. “All of your things?” (Did he sound anxious? He did not want to sound anxious.)

John gave a smile, corners of his mouth tight (self-recrimination). But he nodded. “Yeah, that’s the idea,” he said. “I’m going to go and… apologise for being about the worst husband in existence, and then I’m going to… bring my things home, if you don’t mind too much.”

 _Home_. Somehow Sherlock was reminded of the moment, the day of his fall, when John had sworn that he believed in him, knew he was for real, one hundred percent. That same, tremulous, tentative thing between them. (Could he ever fully trust that it was real? Could John?) “I don’t mind at all,” he said, hoping he could trust his voice, at least. (Touch and go. It caught in his throat a little, rasping on its way out.)

John put a hand on his chest and touched his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock put his hand over John’s and held it there, willing a second kiss out of him. It came, longer this time. (Confirmation given.)

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mycroft said from the doorway in utter disgust. “I did say five minutes. I gave you eight.”

John pulled away. “Three too many,” he said, shrugging at Sherlock, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you later, all right? In fact, I’ll probably stop by the surgery first, explain and all that, and then go by the flat. But I’ll be back later today. Call me if you need me.”

“I will,” Sherlock promised. Paused. Added, “Likewise.”

John smiled and left, nodding at Mycroft without an apparent trace of embarrassment, and Mycroft came over, his gait measured and stylised, as always. Umbrella tapping the floor. “As I said,” he pronounced. “Like a lovesick teenager.”

The flush returned and Sherlock looked away. “It’s my room, last I checked,” he said. “If my… if John chooses to kiss me in it, I believe that’s none of your concern.”

To his surprise, Mycroft chuckled. “So it is,” he agreed, which was even more astonishing. 

Sherlock couldn’t help looking at him then, aware that he was still warm in the face. “That’s it?” he demanded. “That’s all you’re going to say about it?”

Mycroft sighed, the smile fading. He pulled John’s chair closer and sat down in it, laying the umbrella across his knees. “Sherlock, you’re an adult, despite all evidence to the contrary, and if you’ve finally found someone who will not only tolerate you, but appears to genuinely love you, I cannot say that I am not pleased for you. Surprised, oh yes, but pleased. Of course, it couldn’t have come at a worse time in terms of the work, of this case. The case,” he added pointedly, “of your _lives_. Not only yours, but John’s. Remember: this is the reason you had to die three years ago. This is the case you’ve spent over three years on now, living undercover away from your normal – well, ‘normal’ is relative, isn’t it? – life, away from John and Baker Street and Scotland Yard. I have warned you before about getting too caught up in your little romance to be paying proper attention. If ever a case needed your full focus, this is it, Sherlock. Do try to remember that, will you?”

“I know that,” Sherlock said. He exhaled through his nose and looked up at the ceiling. “I am… aware that I have been distracted. The bomb was hardly a lack of precaution on my part, however.”

“Lestrade said he called you in the late morning of Tuesday, to tell you that they had located the scene of Henry Knight’s murder.”

“I know that. He told me when I got there.”

“Yes, but he tried to tell you _before_ they had arrived, hours before they found Moriarty’s remains. You could have been there before the bomb was planted. Are you following me?” Mycroft’s eyes bored into him. 

_Yes_. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He recalled precisely when his phone had rung, but he’d been on the sofa with John, as Mary put it, basking in the aftermath, and John had told him to ignore it, and he’d given in without the slightest argument, hadn’t he? (Of course he had: it was John.)

Mycroft seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, as ever. “Never mind,” he said, a little more gently. “I think I’ve made my point. We need to see this through, and I have information that you will want to hear.”

So that was why he was letting the lecture go. “What information?”

Mycroft sat up, reached into his briefcase and took out some papers. “I only just found this before I got the call and we went in with the helicopters,” he said. “I know you’ll want to believe that I’ve been withholding this from you, but believe me, we only just found it. _I_ found it.”

Sherlock waited. Watched his elder brother. His impatience grew. “Well?”

Mycroft handed him a file. “Service record for one Captain Arthur Morstan, Senior Captain in the so-called Bengal Army, stationed in Calcutta for the majority of his career.”

Sherlock opened. The folder contained a single page covered in neat, point-form notes, nothing of any particular interest. “What am I looking for?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft said. “It’s all a perfectly ordinary service file. However, and this has taken me some time to finally confirm, there is no birth certificate for an Arthur Morstan anywhere in the government archives. I originally thought it had simply been misfiled or misplaced, but it seems that a birth certificate never was entered into the record itself.”

Sherlock listened intently. “Could he have been born in India without proper paperwork? Or could it have been lost over there?”

“No,” Mycroft stated categorically. “His file – page four, second paragraph – cites that he was born in Dorset. And all of the other birth certificates of his battalion are on record.”

He put the file down on his lap. “Go on,” he said, eyes fixed on Mycroft.

“There is also,” Mycroft said slowly, “no birth certificate on record for a Mary Morstan. Supposedly born in Calcutta and raised there until the age of seventeen where she was sent back to England for school. You know that I naturally would have conducted thorough background checks once John became engaged. I only just discovered this morning through various channels that Mary’s National Insurance Number was, in fact, falsified. Falsified very well, one might even say professionally. Mary Morstan first came into existence in England at the age of seventeen, and before that…” He withdrew another file and passed it to Sherlock, who didn’t open it, too focused on listening. “ _This_ girl was sent back from India not at the age of seventeen but fourteen, and not to London but Belfast, from whence her parents came. She was born in India where her father, a colonel in the Bengal Army, was stationed for the majority of her life. Her mother died at a young age and she was raised by governesses and schools in Calcutta. We have reason to believe that they are one and the same. Given this, I have come to the conclusion that Captain Arthur Morstan is as much an invention as his fictional daughter. He never existed. And, until about seventeen years ago, nor did she.”

Sherlock became aware that he had been holding his breath. He looked down at the file for the first time. In Mycroft’s finely-crafted, slanting cursive it was labelled _Mary Elizabeth Moran_. He felt curiously numb. “She’s his daughter.” The words felt like someone else was using his mouth to speak. “Moran’s daughter.”

“I believe so. Yes.”

Sound stopped. Time stopped. Mycroft ceased to exist, his lecture flying out of Sherlock’s mind, leaving space for exactly one thought: _John._ John, who was possibly at this very moment on his way back to Mary’s flat. 

He was pushing back the sheet, unsteady on his feet but profoundly grateful that John had had the decency to put his shoes on before he’d left. Mycroft was speaking but he ignored it, lunging for his coat. All that mattered was that he get to John.

Before the Morans did.


	12. Queen's Gate Gardens/221b Baker Street

**Chapter Twelve: Queen’s Gate Gardens/221b Baker Street**

 

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, I’ll take you!” Mycroft was shouting. 

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, spun around. “You have a car here? Of course you have. A helicopter would be better but a car is still better than a taxi – ” He was babbling, making no sense. 

Mycroft had got to his feet already, was striding over, face stern. “Car. No helicopter. What are you panicking for?”

“John. He’s on his way there, to her flat,” Sherlock said, trying to make the words come out calmly and failing spectacularly. He sounded like a ten-year-old about to have a tantrum. “Come _on_ , then,” he said, utterly out of patience. (Should he call John? What if he was there already and Mary saw the call? What if that provoked the attack, brought it on before he could get there?) He debated, then punched the screen anyway. The phone rang once, then stopped and went to voicemail. John wasn’t answering. He disconnected, jabbed at the screen again. One ring and voicemail again. His breath was coming through gritted teeth, anxiety and anger mounting to the threshold of controllability. 

Mycroft was frowning. “What makes you so sure that they’ll attack now? Oh. Yes, I see,” he said, eyes travelling over Sherlock. Thank God you’re dressed, in that case. Are you all right for this?” He cut Sherlock off even as his mouth was opening. “ _Really_ fine, Sherlock?” Those eyes bored into his face. 

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Sherlock snapped. (Standard reaction for when Mycroft had touched on a weak point. Didn’t help that the situation was exponentially worse than when he usually did it.) “I’ll be fine. I am fine. Let’s go, now!”

Mycroft touched the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, still frowning. The touch was ginger, almost distasteful. (And people called _him_ asexual.) “No fever. Are you still dizzy?”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock turned away and strode toward the door. “I’ll compensate. Do you have a gun? Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do,” he said, more to himself than to Mycroft, who had fallen silently into step beside him, moving rapidly toward the elevators. “One that you’ll let me have for the moment, I mean.”

“We’ll find you one.” Mycroft pressed the elevator button, checked discreetly for nurses on the alert for runaway patients. 

Sherlock held out his hand for it, demanding. (He should have known better to try that with Mycroft, but he was going out of his mind, frantic and only just keeping all-out panic at bay.) “Give me yours.” 

“Over my dead body.” Mycroft stepped inside, pressed the ground floor button and straightened his coat, a sure sign that he was agitated. “I’ll send someone in with you and organise a back-up team.”

“Have you got anyone on John now?” Sherlock watched the descending numbers, willing them to go faster, fingers drumming a tattoo on the metal rail. He pulled out his phone and tapped out a rapid text to John. _Where are you? Do not go back to the flat! Call me as soon as you get this._

Mycroft avoided his gaze. “Just the routine people, but if Moran is at the flat, it will not be sufficient.”

He wanted to snap _Then what was the point of having John followed in the first place?_ , but the answer came to him just as suddenly: because Mycroft had always calculated Sherlock’s involvement into his plans. Of course. And now that Sherlock was out of the way, they could attack John. The deduction unravelled itself in his head. That was why the bomb had been a low-pressure explosive; they wanted to keep him alive to force him to stand by helplessly and watch while they killed John. First they had engineered a marriage and set him up to fail that spectacularly. They would have known the measure of John Watson, that he would blame himself over his swiftly deteriorating marriage, and, calculating in his former flatmate’s suspected feelings for him, they would all but drive him into the arms of said former flatmate, ensuring his eventual infidelity. Either way, they would compromise John from a moral standpoint, which would make him miserable, and Sherlock would be miserable watching him be miserable. Ultimate result: Sherlock would be compromised tremendously in turn by his emotional/physical connection to John, and once that was confirmed and secured, they would kill John. And then they would kill Sherlock, but not until then. It all spoke of Moriarty, his innate ability to understand people’s personal motivations, combined with his mania for creating mayhem and exposing his enemies’ weaknesses. John had always been Sherlock’s, and Moriarty had known it from the first. 

However, the singular problem at this very moment was that he had just affected an escape from a hospital, still unsteady owing to a concussion and aftershocks from the explosion, and was, if he was honest, he was in no fit position to go charging in alone. This was no time for pride. This was _John_. This was everything he had died – sort of – to save, to prevent from happening again. The frustration of it all was maddening. He required back-up. _Real_ back-up. “No,” Sherlock said, out of the window of the car. 

“No?” Mycroft repeated, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Sherlock, surely you’re not supposing that you can just – ”

“I don’t want some operative or team sent in with me,” Sherlock interrupted, impatient. “I need them in helicopters and positioned on the ground and in every high window around the flat. I need you to go in with me.”

There was a pause. “Me?” Mycroft repeated. For the first time in their mutual lives, it seemed he was at a loss for words. “Sherlock…”

“You,” Sherlock repeated, stubborn, still looking out the window. “I need the most competent person I know. If it’s not too much to ask that we temporarily put our differences aside, I need you. I’ll need your resources and personnel as back-up, but I’ll need you there with me.” He turned and finally looked at Mycroft, sitting diagonally opposite him. 

Mycroft looked stunned. He opened his mouth, closed it, compressed his lips, then took a breath and opened it again. “If you’re certain it’s me you want, I will come with you,” he promised, albeit rather stiffly. 

Sherlock gave him a tight smile, the most he could afford with the adrenaline racing through his vessels like a high, fear stalking his thoughts like a predator. “You do have a gun, then.”

“My revolver. Yes.” Mycroft leaned down and opened a compartment beneath the seat. “Here. You can take this one.”

Sherlock took the gun, hefted it. “Loaded,” he said, though it wasn’t a question. The weight gave it away. He wasn’t even sure why he was confirming it. (Trying to diffuse the strange moment with idle conversation? Perhaps. How predictable he’d become.) 

“Indeed.” Mycroft laid his umbrella on the seat beside him and loosened his bow tie. “You know it’s been awhile since I was in the field,” he said. 

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Please. You took down those three Italians in Prague. I remember. And I knew it was you at the time.”

A small silence. “Impressive,” Mycroft said, and sounded as though he meant it. Sherlock glanced at him and Mycroft gave him, for the first time in longer than he could remember, a real smile. 

***

From outside the flat, nothing looked unusual. Mycroft had snapped into action the instant Sherlock had requested his presence, pulled out his phone and started issuing commands like a drill sergeant. He withdrew a second phone from the inner pocket of his coat and began speaking into that, too, at one point talking to both parties. It was only about a twenty-minute drive from St. Bartholomew’s to Queen’s Gate Gardens, but the drive felt both far too long, yet too short to be sufficient for Mycroft’s organisational purposes. Sherlock had tried to use the time to settle his flying thoughts and think, but as it was Mycroft making all the plans, there was little he could do but wait for Mycroft to fill him in. He was the one with the power to mobilise squadrons of helicopters to rain fire from on high. Sherlock would be the bait. He and John. (Unwelcome thought.) And he could hardly walk into the flat and hand John a bulletproof vest, demand that he put it on, then turn to Mary and accept a cup of tea, could he. He would have to blindly trust Mycroft. Much as this went against the grain, if it came down to having to trust any one person blindly at the moment, Mycroft was about the best option there was. Sherlock needed him. Pride would have to wait; it was not a luxury he could spare. Not with John hanging in the balance. 

The car stopped. Mycroft verified something with someone, then nodded at him to go ahead. Sherlock stepped carefully out of the car, feeling light-headed but determined to keep his balance. The revolver was in his coat pocket, in his hand. Mycroft closed the other door and hung up both phones. “So. Just dropping by for a visit,” he said, as though Sherlock could have forgotten the plan. 

“Yes.” It was terse. He strode toward the door and rang the bell, Mycroft standing behind his right shoulder. He breathed deeply and made a renewed effort to be calm. He heard movement behind the door, then the bolt was turning and Mary opened the door. She was dressed typically, long black trousers cut for someone with a slightly different shape (too wide in the thigh, too narrow across the lower abdomen), another version of those white, ruffled blouses that she seemed to favour so, and shoes that looked painful. He wanted to kill her on the spot, before a single word could be exchanged. As it was, he found him staring balefully at her, unable to decide what to say. 

Mary’s eyes were cool, eyebrows lifting as they travelled over Sherlock and then Mycroft, whom she had never met. “Sherlock Holmes,” she said, mild disgust pronounced in her tone. “I should have known you couldn’t even let John break it off without barging in. And who is this?”

“My brother. Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock tried to see over her shoulder without being obvious about it but couldn’t see anything from outside. “May we come in?”

“Why?” Mary asked, very directly. Her eyes were wide open, yet as much like closed windows as they had ever been, revealing nothing. “Perhaps you should go home and let me deal with my marriage without your… _helpful_ observations. This is hardly the time for a social call.”

She began to close the door in his face and his (admittedly unstable) temper snapped. He thrust out an arm. “I don’t think so,” Sherlock said brusquely. “I need to see John.” He stepped into the doorway and into her face, looming over her with as much menace as he could muster. (Besides, he knew this was a ruse; they had to lure him in to see what was being done to John. This was a mere feint.)

His suspicion proved correct; she faltered and backed down, though a glint came into her eye. “As you like,” she said nastily and stepped back to allow both he and Mycroft inside. When she had closed the door, Mary led them to the left into the sitting room. 

John was sitting in an armchair – correction, John was bound in nylon rope crossing over his chest and arms to an armchair, and a man approximately sixty-two years of age was standing behind it, holding a gun to his temple. His face was weathered and pocked, marked by long years under a foreign sun. Hard lines from nose to mouth, short military hair cut, less than an inch long. Dark salted with iron. Clothing: slightly faux-military, similar to John’s in that sense. Perhaps it was a trait all ex-military – or ex-paramilitary – favoured. John’s eyes met his in a wordless signal of apology, self-recrimination, anger, and a plea for help all in one. He’d been gagged, the cloth cutting into his cheeks. 

Something hot burned in the pit of his stomach, threatening to corrode all the way through him. He glanced at Mycroft, who had fallen back, lingering behind Mary. He was touching his ear and coughing discreetly into his hand. Sherlock understood: ear wig, pre-arranged signal, Mycroft’s beloved spy code. _The enemy has been engaged, move all forces into position_. Nonetheless: the small amount of relief this afforded did not affect the fire in his belly at the sight of John bound and gagged this way. He’d been stripped of his weapon, too; the SIG lay on the coffee table a mere meter away. (Interesting that he’d thought to bring it.)

“As it happens, we _were_ expecting you,” Mary said, faux-sweetly. “I’d like you to meet an old family friend, Colonel Sebastian Moran. I don’t believe you’ve met.”

“No,” Sherlock said. His gaze moved from John to lock with the older man’s. His eyes were dark and hard as onyx. “Pity you couldn’t make the wedding,” he said cuttingly. “I believe it’s customary for the father of the bride to escort the bride down the aisle.”

Moran gave a short laugh that contained no humour whatsoever. “Worked that out, did you,” he sneered. “Good job you did. That changes everything, don’t it.”

John’s eyes widened and he made a sound behind the gag, still looking at Sherlock. 

Moran looked down at John and laughed again. “Right, guess I didn’t mention that before,” he said casually. “I’m your father-in-law, Johnny boy. I’m also going to be the one who blows the brain out of your head for cheating on my daughter, now that your freak boyfriend is here. Unless Mary here wants to do it herself. Think she’s earned the right, if you ask me.”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. He wanted to look at Mycroft, see what Mycroft was doing about this, but didn’t want to draw attention to anything his brother was orchestrating behind Mary’s back. (Play for time, then.) Besides, he wanted this all explained. “You planned this. All of this, starting with John’s marriage.”

Moran glanced at Mary. “Oi. You tell him?”

Confirmation. “No,” Mary said, her look poisonous. “Of course not.”

“I think I can explain, unless you’d rather,” Sherlock said, the sneer almost surfacing in his voice. 

That hard, dark gaze glittered maliciously in his direction again. “Have a go, then.” Without budging the gun barrel from John’s temple, Moran reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes, managed to shake one out into his hand, then fished out a lighter and lit it. He drew deeply, then bent to blow the smoke out over John’s face. John coughed around the gag, eyes watering.

(Revise. Breathing was not boring. Not for John.) Sherlock felt his jaw clenching. He would kill Moran, for that alone. If there was nothing else he did, he would kill this man. Today. But not just yet, not with John’s brain inches away from the bullets in the chamber, his entire torso exposed to the front windows. He was vulnerable and Moran was too close. Even if one of Mycroft’s snipers got him, he could still pull the trigger in an accidental muscular contraction, never mind a deliberate one. (Breathe. Wait.)

“You arranged this,” He said, his voice steady. “This is revenge, all of it. You found out I was alive. One of your men saw me somewhere, somehow, and you created an elaborate plan all designed to hurt me. So you started with John. You sent Mary into John’s surgery. How she got the cut is unimportant; either you or she made it deliberately. She flirted, got John’s attention, moved the relationship forward at a more or less normal, if slightly accelerated pace, started hinting at her desires for marriage and children. You had it on good information that John Watson would be interested in these things, especially given that I was no longer a presence in his life. So far, accurate, I assume.”

“Go on,” Moran said, his black eyes driving holes into Sherlock’s skull. He exhaled again, forgetting to blow it at John. 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you,” Sherlock threw out, though careful to tone it down – the last thing he wanted to do was to provoke Moran into just shooting John then and there. “Next, you had Mary steal John’s wedding ring at the reception. You had also been told, I presume, that I must have had… some manner of emotional response regarding John and used the pressure of the missing ring to create trouble in John and Mary’s false marriage, assuming that this would put sufficient effort on John to, despite his loyal nature, turn to the close friend with whom he had so recently been reunited. This gave Mary leverage to abuse John, putting him in a position of moral compromise. You had it on good information that John would be vulnerable to having his character called into question, as well as the natural strain of trying to carry on two relationships of amorous intent. You then had Mary plant the ring on me, putting strain on my relationship with John. All this,” he added, “while attempting to distract me with crimes that were all clearly staged to illustrate exactly one point: your reason for doing all of this.”

Moran’s eyes narrowed. “And what,” he growled, “would you say that reason is? Go on, then. I know how bright he always claimed you were.”

Sherlock knew who _he_ referred to. Mycroft murmured something, the words not audible, but Sherlock’s ears caught his voice. He risked a glance. Mycroft held his eye for a moment, then gave a barely perceptible look at the clock hanging on the wall. (Stall for more time, then.) 

Sherlock looked at Moran again. He withdrew the revolver and levelled it at Moran’s face, his right arm steady and unwavering. “This is revenge for Moriarty. Your lover.”

Moran’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his lined cheek. “You’re going to put that gun down, boy.”

“Point yours at me instead and I’ll think about it,” Sherlock responded, unmoving. 

“Gladly.” Moran shifted his aim, and as he did so, a small orange light appeared on John’s forehead. 

John must have felt its heat; he looked up without moving his head and moaned softly around the gag. 

“Oh, do let me help,” Mary cooed. She withdrew a small handgun, a nine millimetre of some sort from the drawer of the mahogany table next to her and using both hands, aimed it at John’s forehead. John shot her the dirtiest look imaginable. 

Sherlock could not see Mycroft without moving his head. (Keep talking, then.) “He was your lover,” he repeated. “You collected his body from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s before the police arrived, cleaned up the evidence.” His voice went dry, slightly disgusted. “Kept it preserved in formaldehyde all these years. A truly touching tribute. More sentiment than I would have expected of an ex-IRA, ex-Indian Army.”

Moran’s face convulsed in anger. “Jimmy, he’d have appreciated it,” he said. “He wanted to be remembered.”

“I hear his remains have started to disintegrate, now that you decided to give them to the police instead,” Sherlock said callously. “The corpse was damaged in the fire from the bomb you left me anyway. By the way, thank you for that. A little remembrance of your days in Northern Ireland, I presume.”

“Should have made it stronger,” Moran spat. “It was supposed to keep you out of the way a little longer.”

The orange light on John’s forehead had not moved. Sherlock could not allow himself to look at John again, though he felt John’s silent urgency as clearly as if John had spoken aloud. “Interesting,” he went on. “How did you end up in his employ? You could have been his father; you’re nearly twice his age. Perhaps you were.”

“He was… he was everything,” Moran said, ignoring the last, voice gruff. “He was the best. No one ever beat him. You might have shot him, but no one beat him. He bested you. He knew how to rig the strings and make you dance, like a good little puppet. He even made you kill yourself.”

“Nearly,” Sherlock said, extremely dry now. “That part didn’t quite work out, I’m afraid.”

Moran made an irritated gesture with his cigarette, dropping ash onto the carpeting. “He found me in Calcutta nine years ago. I was the best shot in the Bengal Army. He recruited me. He was young, but he was brilliant, the sharpest mind that ever existed, sharper than yours, Holmes. He said that if anyone ever killed him, it’d be you, but he never thought that’d happen. He thought he’d live forever. It was my privilege to work for him.”

“Work with him, and…” Sherlock said, not quite a taunt. “When did the rest begin?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Moran said, though he shot a darkly defiant look at his daughter and stubbed out the cigarette on the back of the armchair. “You learn not to say no to Jim when there’s something he wants.”

“You _learned_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “He’s dead.”

“You bastard,” Mary interjected bitterly. “He was like a brother to me. We were at school together in Belfast.” Peripherally Sherlock saw her fingers shift on the small gun. “He could have taken over the world, and you took that away from us. From our family. That deserves revenge, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock didn’t look at her; he could not take his eyes off Moran. “What would you call that relationship, precisely?” he asked in a calculated drawl. “Your classmate who is like a brother, yet your father’s lover, and incidentally an insane criminal who, I regret to inform you both, shot himself. I didn’t kill him.”

“You are a liar,” Mary hissed. “Enough talk, Da! We’ve waited long enough for this!”

“Wait, Mary,” Moran barked, but it was too late: a shot rang out; John cried out, body jerking in the armchair, and then everything happened at once. Mycroft dove forward and pinned Mary to the floor, a long forearm across her throat, gun to her head. Sherlock launched himself at John, sprawling over him as a shield, half-standing, half-straddling the armchair as heard himself saying John’s name over and over again, hand on John’s forehead to shield it from the laser sight, the heat of which was burning into his hand) and at the same time he heard Mycroft shout something. 

All hell was breaking loose. The sitting room was suddenly filled with men who had emerged from other parts of the flat, mostly on the upper level that overlooked the sitting room. Meanwhile the front windows all shattered inward as mechanical gunfire broke out, a helicopter hovering at the first storey level. Sherlock twisted himself around, ending up on John’s lap, one arm covering as much of him as he could, the other aiming at the windows, not knowing if they were Mycroft’s men or Moran’s but prepared to shoot anyone who approached. 

“They’re ours!” Mycroft bellowed, holding Mary’s gun arm to the carpet as he shot one man on the upper level and one advancing down the corridor toward him. 

He and John were sitting ducks in a firefight. He twisted around again and started untying John with fingers that insisted on fumbling. “Are you all right?” he was demanding. John was moaning. Arms first, then gag. There was blood seeping through the beige jumper on his upper left arm. Mary had been aiming for the shoulder. He yanked the nylon rope knots apart and ripped away the cords binding John to the chair. Looked behind him, shot one of Moran’s men in the chest and made a grab for the SIG. He thrust it into John’s right hand. “You’ll have to shoot right-handed.” He untied the gag. “Are you all right? John. Tell me. Are you all right?” He was shouting at him, willing him to be. 

“Yeah, Sherlock, I’ll be fine,” John said, though his voice was shockingly weak. “She only winged me.”

“She tried to kill you. She _shot_ you.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder, then turned himself around again, determined not to let anyone get another shot at John. The laser sight was sitting on his own chest now, but so far the sniper hadn’t pulled the trigger. (Where was Mycroft?) Still wrestling with Mary while shooting down Moran’s men. Sherlock fired, fired again. Four of Moran’s men lay on the carpet, one draped obscenely over the coffee table. He was empty. The helicopter landed (the one he could see, at any rate) and discharged half a dozen men who charged in through the door and through the broken bay window, effectively dealing with the last of Moran’s men. There could be more in the rest of the flat. The laser sight hadn’t moved. 

A sudden stillness fell; Mycroft’s men had subdued Moran’s. However, Moran himself was standing a meter from the armchair with a gun pointed at Sherlock’s head. “One move, Holmes,” he hurled at Mycroft, “and I blow your little brother’s head in. You can shoot me, but my man across the street, he’s a damn good shot and he’ll just finish the job for me. Trained him myself. Put the gun down.”

Mycroft’s eyes met Sherlock’s. At the same time, Sherlock felt John’s right hand move. He calculated rapidly. He could drop the revolver and take the SIG from John, but the burn on his right arm was making itself rather insistently known and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull off a steady shot. There would be only one chance. With John’s left arm injured, he would have to shoot with his right hand, from the wrong side (Moran was on the left), but he also knew that John was a tremendously accurate shot with either hand. (He himself was in John’s way, but that couldn’t be helped now.) He thought of the laser sights on John’s head at the pool. No: John deserved to be the one to do this. He gave Mycroft the tiniest of nods. Mycroft lowered his gun, exhaling in frustration. 

Sherlock flattened himself as far as he could into John (come on, John, take the signal). He did: John reached around him and shot Moran in the head. Sherlock, feeling that everything was going in slow motion, twisted, manhandled John out of the chair and onto the floor, covering him with his body. Mary was screaming, shots were being fired from across the street, and then Mary was standing over them with her gun trained on Sherlock’s head. Her fingers were closing around the trigger, when another single shot fired and a hole in her chest opened, blood and bone and tissue exploding outward and onto the carpet and possibly Sherlock’s coat. 

Silence fell. All the shooting had stopped.

“Brighton,” Mycroft pronounced in obvious disgust, his gun still smoking as he gazed dispassionately down at the body. 

“The sniper,” Sherlock said, not moving, still trapping John with his body. “Mycroft – ”

Lestrade walked in the open front door. “Got him,” he said. He looked around the room. “Nice flat,” he said to John. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Sorry I was late to the party.”

Mycroft gave him a rare genuine smile. “There wasn’t a lot of time to send out the invitations. Glad you could make it in the end.”

Lestrade looked around. “Everyone all right?”

Sherlock finally let his breath out, his muscles trembling, and got carefully off John. “No. John’s been shot.” (This: fully unacceptable. And by _Mary_.)

John pushed himself into a sitting position with difficulty, pressing down on the wound and leaning on the armchair for support. “It’s not bad,” he insisted. “I just got winged.”

“By your _wife_ ,” Mycroft said, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock’s thought. “An ambulance, I think,” he said to Lestrade. 

“I’m on it.” Lestrade pulled out his phone, walking toward the door. 

“I don’t need an ambulance,” John said, slightly irritated. “I can bandage this up myself. I just want to get my things and go home.”

Sherlock looked at him. Blood was seeping through John’s fingers. Reckless as he was with his own injuries, he had always had John to stitch him up again after. This was something he could not do. “No,” he stated. “Ambulance. I’ll go with you.”

Lestrade hung up. “You want a shock blanket?” he asked John from the doorway, trying to joke. 

“If you so much as wave an orange blanket in my face, I will kill you,” John said tersely. He was obviously in pain and not amused, though he added, “But I really should say thanks. To you, too, Mycroft. Thanks for coming after me, and with all this lot… you really went all out, didn’t you.”

Mycroft had been dealing with the squadron, who had filed out and gone back to the helicopters (there were two sitting on the street now, a crowd of passersby gathered to gawp), but at John’s thanks, he walked over, stepping carefully around the puddles of blood and gore soaking into Mary’s cream carpet. John and Sherlock were still sitting on the floor, backs against the armchair. Somehow Sherlock’s arm had got itself around him, his fingers covering John’s against the bullet wound to maintain pressure.

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft said formally, “the first time we met you passed my test. Let me now say officially that you have indeed been the making of my brother.”

His eyes went to Sherlock’s, almost as though checking for approval. Sherlock looked back at Mycroft without prevarication, cleared his throat. “He raises my game,” he said simply. “He always has.”

“That he does,” Mycroft agreed. The whine of a siren was approaching. Lestrade went out to meet it. 

Sherlock stood and pulled John carefully to his feet. “Thank you,” he said to Mycroft, and meant it. (Uncertain. Something more? Yes. Perhaps.) He held out his hand. 

Mycroft looked at it for a moment, then shook it. “Yes,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

The paramedics came in and, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, insisted on treating him like a patient, too, forcing them both into the ambulance and fussing while Lestrade looked on in amusement. “Where are your clowns?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the man who was insisting on changing the dressing on the burn on his right arm. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Left them behind. This was a private contract gig for your brother.”

“I knew it,” Sherlock said in triumph. “I knew you always did whatever he told you.”

“It’s not like that,” Lestrade tried, but without much conviction. “All right, it’s a bit like that. You two finally make it up, then?”

Mycroft had already disappeared back into his car and left the scene. “I suppose we have,” Sherlock said. 

John, who was sitting to his left, shirtless and enduring stitches throughout this, looked at Sherlock. “You finally went to Mycroft for help. I can’t believe it!”

“You were in danger,” Sherlock said. It was all he said, but somehow that made John’s face change. It was a look that often preceded a kiss, and much as Sherlock wanted to kiss him, they were in an ambulance with paramedics swarming around them like flies, and Lestrade was right there. John had always been particularly sensitive to the MET thinking they were together. 

Nonetheless, John reached over and put his right hand on Sherlock’s, smiling his John-est smile. “I can’t believe it,” he said again. Sherlock turned his palm upward under John’s and smiled back. (Couldn’t help himself. Must have been something to do with the concussion, the aftershocks of the pressure of the situation. He didn’t care.)

Lestrade cleared his throat, trying to hide his smile behind his hand. “I figured,” he said. “Ever since your wedding, in fact,” he said to John. “Oh, I knew we all took the mick out of you both all along, but I never really thought it was happening. The wedding was when I started thinking it should, though. You should have seen Sherlock’s face throughout. Looked like he was at his own funeral.”

John’s hand tightened a little. “Yeah, well, we all make mistakes, don’t we,” he said rhetorically, throwing Sherlock an affectionate look. “Some of us more than others, true – don’t say it,” he warned. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Sherlock protested. (Truthfully.)

“All right, gentlemen,” one of the paramedics said. “You’re cleared to go, if you like.”

“Need a lift home?” Lestrade offered. 

Sherlock declined. “We’ll get a taxi,” he said. “John needs to get his clothes and such.”

Lestrade looked at John. “We could do that,” he said. “I imagine you might not want to, er, go back in there. My people could pack up your stuff and bring it to Baker Street.”

John reacted with surprise. “That’s really not – ” He stopped, thought, looked at Sherlock. “Actually,” he said, changing tacks, “if you wouldn’t mind, that would be lovely. Really nice of you.”

“No problem, mate,” Lestrade said. “Mind, maybe not Donovan. I don’t reckon she’ll be calling Sherlock a freak any time soon, after that little stunt you pulled at the crime scene. But anyway, as far as I see, you were legally married regardless of all this, so once they get it all cleaned up, fix the windows and all that, you can put the place up for sale. Should fetch a good price, big place like this, South Kensington. Be nice for the two of you. Anyway, see you soon. But not too soon, I hope.” He pulled out his phone and started walking away, already talking into it. 

They got out of the ambulance and started walking toward the main road, toward the café where Sherlock had often staked himself out to walk John’s movements. No more need for any of that, at least not until he’d made himself a new arch-enemy. John’s hand was in his as they walked and he realised that this emotional compromise was simply always going to be a part of his life from now on. And frankly, what was further surprising was that he found he didn’t care. Not one bit. 

John raised his injured arm without so much as a grimace and flagged down a cab. As it stopped, he turned to Sherlock and said, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

***

“I have a question,” Sherlock said.

They were sitting on the sofa, the remains of Chinese take-out abandoned on the coffee table, alongside the bottle of paracetamol (John) and the wine (both of them), and two pairs of bare feet. “You don’t usually announce the fact,” John said, sipping his wine and sounding pleased with himself, throwing Sherlock’s line back at him. 

“I thought I should. It’s a serious question.” Sherlock wove his fingers together on his outstretched legs. 

“Will I need more wine for this?”

“Possibly. Maybe.”

“Redundant,” John said. “Pour me some more then, would you?”

Sherlock leaned forward and did just that, refilling his own glass, too. The bottle was empty. The second bottle, that was. They’d had a difficult day. John hadn’t even said tedious things about paracetamol and wine at the same time, nor bothered Sherlock about his fading concussion. “I was thinking,” he said. 

“Oh Christ. Not again.”

The wine had made John jovial. The physically affectionate stage would follow (which Sherlock certainly planned on taking advantage of), and then sleep. The window for conversation would therefore be somewhat narrow. Besides, he was rather looking forward to the physically affectionate part, himself. They had always celebrated cases by eating substantially afterward; now they would be able to add having substanital amounts of sex, too. This had been more than a case, though. Added to all of the emotional turmoil John would probably need to sort through over the next few weeks regarding his marriage, they had both come rather closer to dying than even their normal. And they were injured and weak. (Not too weak.). Still. Next time: sex first, food after. Sherlock’s eyes travelled to the suitcase and five boxes (four of books, one of DVDs, he had already deduced) sitting by the door, delivered by Lestrade himself while they were eating. Sherlock went over the checklist in his head one final time: assassins dealt with, nasty wife dealt with, Moran dealt with, John attained, Baker Street theirs again. Resurrection process: complete. Only one last thing to clarify. 

“I was thinking about when I died,” he said, turning back to John and watching him carefully. “Appeared to die, rather.”

John went quiet. The subject always had that effect on him. “Yes?” he said. “What about it?”

Sherlock took his hand, the right one, which was sitting on John’s thigh, and looked at him very intently for a long moment. “What if I _had_ told you?”

John blinked. “Told me you were going to stage your death before it happened? Or told me after, during the years when you were on the run?”

“Either.”

John studied his face. “Are you just asking what I think would have happened if you had, hypothetically?”

“Should I have told you?” Sherlock asked. He’d spent so much time defending his decision to John, explaining how Mycroft had forbidden it on either side of the fall, but he had nonetheless firmly believed it to be the right decision. It had only just struck him now that perhaps John should have been allowed a say in any of it, despite it having been done for his benefit, his protection. 

John’s eyes went a bit wider. They were very blue in the low lamplight. For a long time he didn’t speak, thinking. Then, at last, he said, “I understand why you did it. You did it for me. So that Moriarty’s people would leave me alone. But I do still wish you had told me, yes. I understand it, but I wish there had been a way for you to have let me know. I see that maybe I had to see you fall and think it was real. But I would have disappeared with you. I would rather have disappeared with you, and been with you all that time. I could have helped you. I could have protected _you_. This thing you’re feeling, about wanting to protect me, cover me with yourself so that nothing can happen to me – it goes both ways. You have to let me do that for you, too. That’s how love works.”

He tried to process this. Made a frustrated gesture with both their hands. “That’s… torturous. How do people stand it?”

John smiled. “I think the idea is that all the worry and compromise is supposed to balance out with the benefits.”

Sherlock thought of that first day, their first joint case, when John had shot Jefferson Hope just to protect him. The day after they’d met. (Benefits indeed.) He’d never considered, before that, the idea of partnership, of having a back-up. A right-hand man. Hadn’t seriously given it any thought until John had called him an idiot in jest, and his humour, combined with the fact that he had followed Sherlock, found him, shot a man to protect him – and was smart enough to away with it – had shifted the entire balance of his life. He’d responded with _Dinner?_ and even then not known that it was a question he’d meant not just for that night, but for good. For life. The equation had shifted. It was no longer Sherlock Holmes, deductive genius and social disaster, going it alone. Everything had changed. He had John. (Would always have John, he hoped.) “You would have preferred to come with me,” he said, just to confirm. 

John moved closer. “Three years of constant danger, squatting in the worst parts of the Eastern bloc, being shot at while hunting assassins – with _you_ , mind – or three years of believing you dead and gone forever? Yeah, I know which I would choose, Sherlock. So if it ever comes to that again, you know I’m coming with you next time. As in, you’d better take me with you next time. You die, I die. That’s how this is going to work.”

He _did_ like it when John laid down the law like this. Still. “You’re sure,” he said, testing. 

“Yep. Sure.” John’s eyes held no regret, no doubt. 

Sherlock lifted their hands and kissed John’s. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. (Consider.) (It was.)

John held his gaze for another long moment, and in that space it seemed that everything that needed to be said was said silently. Then, out loud, he said, “Good. Me neither.” Pulled Sherlock toward him and kissed him for a very long time, bodies turning in toward each other’s, legs tangling together.

They were home. 

***

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Serious shout-out of thanks to my beloved beta, pandoras_chaos, who has held my hand and been endlessly interested in and supportive of this fic from before it even began. The steady stream of feedback has been invaluable - were I actually Sherlock, I would say something about genius craving an audience. I'm no Sherlock, but you are my John nonetheless. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "Resurrection" by SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274970) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




End file.
